


Try A Little Tenderness

by Silver_Scribbles



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Awkward Romance, Christophe Giacometti Being Christophe Giacometti, Christophe Giacometti Flirts, Drama & Romance, Enemies to Lovers, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Happy Ending, Innuendo, M/M, Mild Smut, Multi, Romantic Fluff, Slow Romance, Wingman Christophe Giacometti
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-09-28 06:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17177855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_Scribbles/pseuds/Silver_Scribbles
Summary: From Colleagues to Rivals to Lovers: the tumultuous romance of Christophe Giacometti & Masumi Keller(A.K.A: The Unspeakable Lutfisk Prank)Prequel/Companion Piece to "The Coin, The Stone & The Rose"





	1. Act 1, Scene 1: Identification of Intrigues

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Coin, The Stone & The Rose](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11453427) by [Silver_Scribbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_Scribbles/pseuds/Silver_Scribbles). 



> It's FINALLY here; the Chris/Masumi prequel we've all been waiting for!
> 
> Thank you so much for all your support - I hope you enjoy reading this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [silverscribblesuniverse](https://silverscribblesuniverse.tumblr.com/) or check out my [other fics on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_Scribbles/works)!
> 
> A few NOTES, for context:
> 
> While this is a prequel to my Beauty & The Beast AU! fic "The Coin, The Stone & The Rose", I've tried to write it as its own stand-alone story; so hopefully, you shouldn't be too terribly lost if you're starting here. (Though you may miss one or two silly references).
> 
> Additionally, this story doesn't contain any magical/fantasy elements, and is a more straight-forward period piece. Also, despite the naming convention I've settled on for the chapters, this fic isn't written in script form; it's still just a good 'ol novel, lol. 
> 
> With that in mind, this story takes place about 2 years before the spell was cast in the original fic; so 22 years prior to the main CSR storyline in total. See "End Notes" for clarification on character ages. 
> 
> ONE LAST THING - you may find a few more OOC moments than usual in this fic (Especially when it comes to Viktor). This is only because I already based the CSR characterization off of cannon - so, since this is a prequel, certain characters might not have developed certain traits, or experienced certain defining moments in their character arc as of yet, so subsequently may do/say things that are OOC. I still tried to keep everything as grounded/believable as possible, based on cannon and the CSR universe. 
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS
> 
> Coarse Language. Sexual Innuendo. Mentions of Minor Character Death (OC's).
> 
> Find TRANSLATIONS in the "End Notes" and feel free to hmu with any corrections!

_PRESENT DAY_

 

Masumi Keller had never been one for drama.

It was such a tedious pastime, really; sharing rumors and keeping secrets, passing judgement and fanning flames – and for what? Cheap thrills? Surely, he figured, there were enough trials and tribulations in the world already, without making unnecessary trouble for oneself.

And yet, for reasons unknown, the world around him seemed constantly abuzz with gossip and intrigue. Perhaps, such were the consequences of making his home in a Royal Castle, but it seemed to him as though every one of his fellows had found themselves in the thick of scandal at some point or other; some even opting to grace the spotlight over and over and over again – sustained by infamy as though it were the elixir of life itself.

Masumi swore he would never understand it . . .

One such as himself was above such childish antics, after all.

Because – as anyone would tell you – Masumi Keller was a very serious sort of person; one who refused to suffer fools and had no time for frivolities of any kind. He was what some would call the ‘strong, silent type’ – composed and precise, well-established and respected; a bright young man who took pride in his work, and had a very promising future ahead of him.

So . . . how in the merciful fuck had he found himself here: standing before the Crown Prince’s Personal Parlour, mere moments away from losing everything he’d ever worked for to his own personal melodrama; a torrid tale the likes of which would put The City Ballet to shame?

It was a question which hardly needed asking, of course; the answer being, Christophe Giacometti.

Christophe Giacometti and his big, stupid calf-eyes.

Had he never met the aforementioned Christophe Giacometti, Masumi Keller might have lived a perfectly adequate, decent sort of life; one which saw him well-liked, modestly successful, and never in want of comfort or contentment.

But The Universe, it seemed, had other designs – and now Masumi’s carefully crafted existence had devolved into a series of events so unspeakably strange, they could never be understood in their entirety; a nine-month-long saga of outlandish antics, all colluding to bring the calm, orderly balance of his perfectly planned-out life to ruin.

Although . . . much as he cursed The Universe – and a certain, calf-eyed scoundrel – for his current predicament, Masumi had to admit that he was not, perhaps, entirely innocent in this regrettable tale; and not, perhaps, entirely as righteous as he’d once fancied himself to be.

In hindsight, he really should have drawn the line at getting Chris fired.

The full-length double-doors before him practically sneered; egging him on like a pair of rowdy hecklers, eagerly awaiting the final act of his shameful downfall to begin.

Masumi took a deep breath and raised a single, white-gloved fist; poised and ready to knock.

He paused a moment, steeling what little of his resolve still remained.

For, on the other side of those gilded doors, The Crown Prince himself sat in wait – and Masumi was about to get himself fired.

 

*****

 

_Nine Months Earlier . . ._

( _AKA_ ) _MONTH 1, DAY 1_

 

In a large, coal-lit kitchen, neatly situated in the eastern wing of the illustrious Nikiforov Manor, an assiduous young man stood over a long, solid-oak prep table; scrutinizing the swamp of loose pages splayed out before him.

This particular young man was enormously tall; oversized and out of place against the cozy kitchen backdrop, like a marionette crammed into a dollhouse. His hair was tied back, his expression was dour, and his name was Masumi Keller.

The last embers of the day smouldered in the massive brick oven to his right; it was nearly midnight now, but Masumi still had work to do – his day far from being over.

As both Head Butler _and_ acting Maître D’ to the Royal Court of Crown Prince Viktor Nikiforov, a very great deal of trust had been placed in Masumi; and an equally great amount of responsibility.

And certainly it was tiring some days, pulling double-duty like this – exhausting even – but after endless months of blood, sweat and tears, he finally had the Castle back in working order; and running more efficiently than ever. He was not about to falter now and lose all that, especially to something as trifling and human as fatigue.

Masumi rubbed his eyes, tilting his parchment towards the hazy light and ignoring the misty sweat beading on his brow. He quickly scribbled the words “ _Smother Coals_ ” next to a neat, pre-placed “ _42._ ”.

It wouldn’t do to go and burn down the Castle, after all; what a waste that would be. Thank Mercy for his check-list; the one spot of peace and order in his otherwise unmanageable existence.

He shuffled the sheaves of parchment, returning to his current task – number 38 on the list – “ _Shift Schedule_ ”.

Another shuffling of pages preceded a long, contemplative silence.

With a self-satisfied little smirk, Masumi at last put pen to paper.

It was calm, meditative almost, being here like this; alone in the night, lost to the steady hum of his own algorithmic ruminations, considering the shifts one by one and scheduling them neatly into place.

“ _MASUMI_! You’ll _never guess_ what –”

The Butler jumped at the sudden outcry; smacking the back of his skull on half-a-dozen low-hanging pots.

 _‘BING-BANG-BONG, CLANG, SPLAT’_.

“Ow . . .”

“Ooo . . . sorry . . .”

A sheepish voice apologized somewhere beyond Masumi’s starry eyes.

The Butler let out a little hiss of pain as he righted himself; gingerly probing the back of his throbbing head and forcing a congenial smile.

“No, no – it’s quite alright,” he dismissed, “No need to concern yourself, Lady Okukawa. You’d think I’d – _ow_ – know better than to do that by now”.

When he looked up, he was met by a haughty frown.

An anxious lump began to form in The Head Butler’s throat.

“Is there . . . something the matter, My–?”

The Lady interrupted with a sigh, “still with the ‘ _Lady Okukawa_ ’ . . . even after all this time,” she chided, “And here I thought we were _friends_ –”

Masumi froze; jaw slack, eyes wide, shame plucking at his heartstrings.

She was teasing, he knew – the tilt of her brow and the curl of her lip said it all – but even so, the ribbing curdled his stomach.

 “I – we are!” he apologized, the response as reflexive as a sneeze, “Of course we are. It’s just, old habits–”

He was halted by a gentle hand on his forearm.

“Masumi . . . it’s alright,” The Lady assured, “I’m only joking”.

As she smiled, the knot in his stomach loosened ever-so-slightly.

One of these days, he would learn to navigate her teasing; he hoped.

For a brief second, The Lady’s face became ponderous.

“Wait here,” she instructed, “I’ll be right back”.

Without further explanation, she turned on her heel, venturing deeper into the darkened kitchen.

A perplexed Masumi did nothing more than gawk after her; dumbfounded in the wake of her sudden departure. He let out a little sigh, supposing he would just have to do as she’d bidden him and wait.

Lady Okukawa Minako was the most recent edition to their little family of staff; a scandalized countess, retired prima ballerina, and now, personal dance coach to Crown Prince Viktor Nikiforov.

She also happened to be one of Masumi’s dearest friends; no mean feat, considering The Head Butler’s propensity for solitude.

Truth be told, Masumi hadn’t quite known what to make of her at first. Minako’s capricious temperament and brash manner had given him the distinct impression of a pampered artiste – a spoiled aristocrat without a second thought to spare on ‘the help’. He was soon to discover, however, that Lady Okukawa Minako was anything but – and in fact, seemed to take singular delight in defying expectations.

And so, despite their starkly opposing natures, The Courtier had won him over with her sharp wit and ready smile and easy company; permanently securing herself a place in The Head Butler’s affections.

As though on cue, The Lady reappeared; thrusting a small bundle in Masumi’s direction.

“Here,” she offered, “for your head”.

Quirking a quizzical brow, Masumi reached for the little pouch. It was chill to the touch, even through the cottony barrier of his starchy white gloves.

He soon discovered why; Minako had taken her own mauve kerchief and packed it with ice for his stinging skull.

The Butler swallowed hard, stamping out his emotion and replacing it with etiquette.

“My thanks,” he bade; leaning back against the prep table with a grateful sigh.

Minako began to follow his lead, but suddenly stopped, spying the many yards of parchment still strewn about the kitchen.

Without warning, she rounded The Butler.

“You’re _still_ working? I thought you’d be nearly done –”

“I am! Nearly. Very, _very_ nearly–”

“ _Masumi_! You should have said something; I didn’t mean to interrupt –”

“You’re not interrupting anything,” Masumi insisted, “Really – I’m nearly finished”.

It was a lie, and they both knew it.

“ _Nearly finished_?” She echoed; a two word interrogation.

Masumi swallowed his umbrage once more.

“It’s far less than it seems,” He promised, cool and collected, as always, “just the schedule for the week, and the inventory, and a letter of –”

“Well that certainly _seems_ like far too much to be ‘nearly finished’. . .” Minako opined, “Unless, of course, all these papers are just a part of some clever ruse to conceal a _scandalous misdeed_ . . . a secret tryst, perhaps . . ?”

Masumi choked, nearly dropping his ice.

“What?” He gasped, “I – I haven’t b-been doing _anything_ of the sort–!”

Minako shrugged, “Too bad . . . if you’re not going to be getting any sleep, there should at least be a _pleasurable_ reason . . .”

The Courtier waggled her eyebrows at him.

Masumi deflated.

Oh. She was only teasing.

Again.

The Butler took a deep breath and very purposefully cleared his throat.

“There’s more than enough _pleasure_ to be found in my work, _I assure you_ ,” he replied, speaking slowly and steadily once more.

Minako rolled her eyes.

“Fine, fine, consider me assured,” she pouted, absently leafing through Masumi’s mountain of paperwork, “no more jokes from Minako, you have my word”.

“That’s not what I –”

“I know,” Minako apologized, meeting his eye, “I shouldn’t tease – not if you don’t find it amusing”.

A soft smile broke through Masumi’s carefully composed demeanor, “It’s alright,” he relented, “One little jibe surely won’t be the death of me”.

Minako smiled right back.

“But, in my own defense,” she quipped, “you do make it so _terribly_ easy. I mean, honestly, you should know better than to take me seriously by now”.

Masumi quirked a brow of his own, “Hmm . . . you _say_ that,” he countered, “but what happens come the day you have something of dire importance to share, and no one is in the habit of listening? You’ll be very glad of my literal nature then, mark my words”.

He was joking, of course; well, the closest he ever came to joking.

Minako gasped; eyes lighting up like a fireplace ablaze, “Oh, right!” she cried, “The thing!”

“The _thing_?”

“The thing – the _very important thing_ I was trying to tell you before you went and smacked your head!”

“Ah,” Masumi intoned, “‘ _the thing_ ’. Of course”.

With a gracious nod, The Butler invited her to begin – lowering the kerchief from his head and folding it up into a neat little square.

Minako adored gossip, and while Masumi felt more or less indifferent to her many lurid tales, Minako very much delighted in the telling of them; and he very much delighted in her delight.

Minako grinned; excitement bubbling to the surface once more, “You’ll never believe it, Masumi . . . we _finally_ have a new Maître D’!”

Time ground to a screeching halt.

“What?” Masumi yelped, bolting upright as his world came crashing down, “Are you–?”

The rest of his sentence was cut off by the clanging of half-a-dozen low-hanging pots.

 _‘BING-BANG-BONG, CLANG, SPLAT’_.

“ _Ow_ . . .”

“ _Mercy_!” Minako exclaimed, startled by the sudden ruckus, “Nikolai has _got to_ move those–”

“No, no,” Masumi dismissed, “It’s not – _ow_ – Nikolai’s fault. _I_ was the one who put them there. But that’s–”

“Oh, _Masumi_ –”

“What? It’s the most efficient place to–”

“Not if you’re constantly cracking your cranium on them!”

“Yes. Well. I’m the only one _altitudinous_ enough to suffer that particular risk,” Masumi countered, “and considering how the new placement has saved Nikolai from bending over and exacerbating his bad back, overall kitchen performance has increased by–

Minako sighed, deftly yanking her kerchief out of his starchy hand, “I’ll go get some more ice . . .”

“– percent; which is no small margin!” Masumi called after her, “And in light of the benefits, I’m more than willing to absorb the–”.

But Minako was gone.

Masumi sighed; flinching as his fingertips made contact with his much abused skull.

Alright; so this new set-up wasn’t a hundred percent perfect – _yet_. But that _hardly_ mattered against the gains – and in light of . . . recent events.

Masumi swallowed hard; willing his heart not to break.

Of all the news Minako could have brought him, _this_ was definitely the worst.

Masumi’s Sisyphean labours had begun approximately six months prior; though the _real_ trouble had all started with The Crown Prince’s coming out ball, three months previous to that.

It was at said ball where his own dear Master had met a certain Prince Hamelin of The Middle Hills. Soon thereafter, Crown Prince Viktor had consented to the handsome young regent’s suit, and the two had officially begun their courtship.

That was all well and good, of course – or, at least, it would have been – if not for the fateful night that a sleepless Masumi had elected to re-organize the Castle Store Room. Rather than tiring himself with mindless tedium, as he’d hoped, the unfortunate Head Butler had stumbled upon a sight too terrible for words: The Crown Prince’s Royal Husband-to-Be, locked in a scandalous embrace with Pascal Laurent – Nikiforov Manor’s own avaricious Maître D’.

Naturally, both Prince Hamelin and Pascal were dismissed immediately thereafter; and just as naturally, Masumi had been chosen to fill the void.

The void left behind by the Maître D’, of course.

And so, being the responsible, hard working person that he was, Masumi gladly took up the call. And while the work had been thankless and stressful and demanding, The Butler was still incredibly proud of everything he’d accomplished in such a short, chaotic time.

But . . . that was all over now.

The news lodged in his throat like a bleak and bitter pill – one he just couldn’t bring himself to swallow.

It just seemed so unfair for his tenure to come to such an abrupt and unceremonious end; especially after how successful he had been, and how much he had sacrificed to make it so.

A small, chilly kerchief was suddenly thrust in his direction; breaking his reverie.

“. . . My thanks,” he mumbled; too petulant to make eye contact as he tended to his head.

Silence settled over the kitchen as Masumi stewed.

At length, Minako finally spoke again, “So . . ?”

“Hmm . . . I’ll live,” Masumi sighed, “it’s only a bump on the head – nothing a little laudanum won’t fix –”

“Not that,” Minako wheedled, “I mean _the new Maître D’_ – it’s wonderful, isn’t it? You finally get to _sleep_ again!”

“I – yes. Of course. Marvelous,” Masumi lied, “Though I scarcely think my pillows recognize me anymore”.

Minako snorted; Masumi forced himself to swallow his disappointment.

He shouldn’t be upset; he knew that. He was being childish.

Of course Crown Prince Viktor would hire a replacement. Of course he–

But all the same . . . Masumi had grown rather accustomed to the role; he performed the duties so admirably, it seemed such a shame to–

Right. Stop it now. This was nothing to ruffle his feathers over.

The Crown Prince’s decision had nothing to do with Masumi or his performance; the ruling was entirely logistical in nature. He knew that.

Besides, he really did need the sleep.

“And that’s not even the best part!” Minako crowed; intruding on Masumi’s thoughts once more.

“Oh?” Masumi invited, wondering if there could possibly be a ‘best part’ to what, in essence, was his own heart wrenching demotion.

Minako leaned over with a sly, conspiratorial grin, “The best part is . . . he’s _gorgeous_!”

Masumi very nearly groaned.

 _Of course_ Minako would know that; firstly, because she was The Prince’s confidant and therefore privy to all manner of classified information – and secondly, because Okukawa Minako could spot a gorgeous man a hundred leagues away.

Masumi hesitated a moment before speaking; trying in vain to reconcile his friend’s excitement with his own bitterness.

“Although I am remiss to rain on your parade, my dear Lady . . .” he posited, “considering how our previous Maître D’ departed, I’m not entirely certain that’s a good thing”.

Minako mirrored The Butler with a pout of her own, “Oh come on, you big sourpuss,” she cajoled, “Just be exited with me! Please? I mean, as absolutely _breathtaking_ as our new hire may be – and _I assure you_ , he _is_ – what are the odds of something like that happening _again_?”

Masumi’s brow furrowed in contemplation; earning him a playful swat on the arm.

“Don’t _actually_ do the math!” Minako laughed, “I promise, Masumi – there’s _absolutely nothing_ to worry about”.

“And how can you be so certain of that?”

“Because – unlike most people – Christophe Giacometti is a _gentleman_ ”.

Masumi drew a blank.

‘ _Christophe Giacometti_ ’; where had he heard that name before . . ?

“Remind me . . .” he drawled, “who is ‘Christophe Giacometti’, again?”

Minako’s expression became glacial; gaping at The Butler as though he’d grown another head.

“ _Who is Christophe Giacometti_?” She echoed; brittle and scandalized, “What do you mean, ‘ _who is Christophe Giacometti’_? I’ve only been talking about him for _weeks_! You know, _Christophe Giacometti_ ; tall, charming, Adonis-among-men . . . works at The City Grande Hotel . . . my _future husband_ . . . ringing any bells?”

“Oh!” The Butler exclaimed, comprehension dawning like a struck match, “ _That_ Christophe Giacometti . . .”

“Yes,” Minako growled, “ _that_ Christophe Giacometti!”

“Wait; he’s a Maître D’ then? But, I thought –”

“ _Yes, Masumi_ – as I’ve mentioned before, on _several occasions_ , he is in fact, a Maître D’. That is, after all, _how we met_ ”.

“No, no, no” Masumi objected, “I _distinctly_ remember you telling me your new city-dwelling friend was a _dancer_ ”.

He smirked in triumph.

Minako sighed and rolled her eyes, “Yes: _was_ ,” she clarified, “He _was_ a dancer; he’s _now_ a Maître D’!”

Masumi’s triumphant smirk melted into a sheepish little moue.

“Oh. Yes,” he conceded, “I suppose that . . . that would make sense . . .”

Mercy; if he hadn’t felt the fool before, he certainly did now.

Thankfully, Minako was a gracious conversationalist – as always – and refused to let the matter dwell.

“Yes; yes, it does,” she teased, “But, I _suppose_ I can forgive the confusion . . . in light of the fact that you’re running on – what – three hours of sleep? Less?”

Masumi let out a sigh of relief, “. . . something like that,” he agreed.

“Regardless,” Minako chirped, “you can now finally join me in celebrating the fact that, a _mere fortnight_ from now, Christophe Giacometti will be right here, in this very Castle, living and working and being his charming, wonderful self, day in and day out for the rest of our glorious lives”.

Masumi very nearly snorted; Minako could be so dramatic sometimes . . .

But he had to admit, she certainly did seem _happy_.

And although the loss of his position still chaffed him, Masumi supposed he could at least _try_ to make peace with the idea . . . as it meant Minako’s happiness.

After all, the way she spoke about her city-dwelling beau, one might think this ‘Christophe Giacometti’ was the most perfect man to ever walk the earth.

Masumi certainly hoped so; for her sake.

He supposed he would find out for himself soon enough.

“Alright, alright, point taken,” The Butler surrendered, crossing his arms with a fond little grin; damp kerchief fisted in his hand, “So then . . . considering your Christophe Giacometti will be here a fortnight from now, shall I go ahead and schedule your nuptials for a fortnight and a day? Or do you intend to take things at a pace which mere mortals such as I can fathom?”

“Oh, stop it!” Minako giggled, infinitely pleased by The Butler’s insinuation.

Masumi relaxed, ever-so-slightly; at least he managed to say the right thing once in a while.

“No, no, there’s no need for all that,” The Lady babbled, “I promise I won’t abscond with our _gorgeous_ new Maître D’ – not before he’s even had a chance to start, anyway. I mean, you deserve _some_ reprieve from double-duty. I can probably give you . . . hmm . . . I don’t know, maybe about a _month_ before we elope to The Southern Isles. Sound fair?”

Masumi rolled his eyes, “An _entire_ month? You’re far too kind, my Lady,” he drawled.

Minako smirked, absolutely tickled pink that he was finally playing along, “You know, I really am . . .” she teased, “But, I mean, how could I just run off and get married like that? Especially knowing how _terribly lost_ you would be without me . . .”

“ _Terribly_ lost, would I?”

“Absolutely!” Minako insisted, “I mean, who else would wait up until the dead-ass middle of the night – when you’d _assumedly_ be done all your chores – just to bring you the latest gossip and good tidings? Who else would make sure you were still eating properly and getting enough sleep?”

“Oh, I’m certain I would manage somehow –”

“And you never know . . .” Minako continued, “If we’re lucky, we just might discover that Chris has a sibling – an equally _charming_ , equally _gorgeous_ sibling, who tends towards men and has a thing for ‘ _altitudinous_ ’ academic-types”.

She shot him an extremely loaded look.

Masumi very nearly groaned; not this _again_.

“Well, we can but hope,” The Butler deadpanned, “though I do very much doubt the existence of any person possessing such an absurdly _specific_ fancy”.

“Come on Masumi . . . think of the possibilities,” Minako wheedled, “We could have a double-wedding!”

“In that case,” Masumi returned, “I would be unable to attend, considering I would have my hands doubly full with such an affair – ordering double the wine, co-ordinating double the staff and so on”.

It was Minako’s turn to roll her eyes, “Oh, come on, you wouldn’t _honestly_ work your own wedding?” she scoffed. 

Masumi shrugged, “Who else would do as good a job of it?”

The Lady fixed him with a glare.

“Oh, _honey_ . . .” she groaned, “We _really_ need to find you a bedfellow”.

An indignant blush crept up Masumi’s neck. He took a deep breath and averted his gaze; ostensibly in order to fold the little handkerchief still scrunched in his hand.

“While I _appreciate_ the concern,” he tersely replied, “I am perfectly content with –”

 “Look, I know you’re not all that comfortable discussing ‘ _personal matters_ ’,” Minako conceded, “and I’m not trying to force anything on you . . . I’m merely suggesting that _maybe_ there’s more to life than work”.

“Suggestion noted,” Masumi replied, just a bit too brusquely.

He offered up the pristinely folded kerchief, but Minako refused to take it.

“Masumi, you _know_ I’m only trying to help”.

“And you have my thanks, but I really don’t _need_ any–”

“So you _didn’t_ just smash your skull on the same rack of cast-iron pots _twice_? Pots which, by the way, _you_ put there in the _first place_?”

“. . . Although not, perhaps, _entirely_ without its shortcomings, I still maintain that the new placement was a masterstroke–”

“Not the point!” Minako scolded, “Masumi, you’ve been working your ass off for six months straight trying to keep this place from falling apart. Before that, you were working your ass off as Head Butler. Before _that_ , you were working your ass off _to become_ Head Butler. And before _that_ . . . well, I’m not entirely sure, actually . . . but whatever it was, I’m _certain_ you were working your ass off to do it. I mean, when have you _ever_ taken _any_ time for yourself? You deserve to be happy –”

“I _am_ happy –”

“And _I_ , for one, would rest infinitely easier knowing there was someone _besides myself_ who would wait up until the dead-ass middle of the night for you, and who made sure you were still eating and sleeping properly, and – more specifically – who would be around to fetch you ice when you inevitably clonk your poor head on those _mercy-forsaken pots_ again”.

Masumi sighed; he supposed he couldn’t argue with that.

He pouted about it instead.

“Shall I go ahead and assume it’s pointless to remind you that I’ve rather successfully navigated the relatively calm waters of my existence _on my own_ these past twenty-seven years?” he postulated; sarcastic to the core.

“You shall,” Minako confirmed; unflinching in the face of his petulance.

The Butler rolled his eyes, “Fine . . . I’ll think on it,” he conceded; holding the kerchief out to her once more, as if in truce.

“Please do,” Minako replied pointedly; knowing all too well how easily Masumi allowed such promises fall to the bottom of his precious ‘to-do’ list.

The Lady made no move to reclaim her kerchief.

Realizing that nothing less than a full surrender would free him from their stalemate, Masumi finally relented.

“I _will_ think on it, Minako –” he sighed, “You have my word”.

At length, The Lady took back her kerchief.

“Good,” she replied, incredibly pleased with herself.

“However,” The Butler added, “I feel it only fair to warn you that this is an exercise in futility”.

Minako only rolled her eyes, muttering a terse, “Well, can’t blame a girl for trying,” under her breath.

Masumi resisted the urge to rise to her bait; instead turning his attention back to the looming paperwork.

“It’s late . . . I really shouldn’t keep you,” he murmured.

Minako followed his gaze to the stacks of parchment; her frown sympathetic.

By now, she knew the man well enough to understand that what he _actually_ meant, was that he wanted to be alone.

“Yea, alright . . . I _suppose_ I’ve done enough damage for one night,” she acquiesced, “but . . . promise you won’t stay up ‘till dawn again?”

“I’ll just finish the schedule – then it’s off to re-acquaint myself with my bed,” Masumi vowed; very nearly believing himself.

“Alright,” Minako replied, pretending she believed him as well, “see you tomorrow, Masumi”.

“Goodnight, Minako,” he bade, “sleep well”.

With a fond pat on the arm, Minako turned away; slowly drifting out of the kitchen and into the gloomy staff corridors beyond.

The tension coiling in Masumi’s chest vanished the moment that Minako did.

He let out a sigh of relief.

She meant well – _really_ , she did; and what’s more, he genuinely appreciated her concern.

But courtships were _complicated_ , to say the least; and in Masumi’s experience, just not worth the trouble. It wasn’t that he reviled the notion of romance, of course – rather the opposite, in fact – but personally, he much preferred the muddy reward of certainty, to the inevitable heartache of longing.

The Butler gazed at the sheaves of paper which still lay barren before him; supposing that rather than losing the night thinking on hopeless endeavors, he could always tackle a tangible one instead.

And so, he turned back to the task at hand; while it was still his task to do, that was.

Soon, all of this would all fall to Christophe Giacometti – the handsome new Maître D’ from The City – and Masumi . . .

Well, Masumi supposed he would just have to find some other way to occupy his evenings.

He leaned over the prep table once more – careful not to hit his head on the pots this time – then picked up his quill and studied the pages.

Alright; where had he left off . . ?

 

*****

 

_14 Years Previous . . ._

 

The Northern Forest was lush and green; a deep juniper blur dappled with emerald sunlight beyond the swinging curtains of the modest carriage.

Masumi Keller rocked back and forth, swaying in time with the rickety coach as it shuttled him over the worn wooded path.

“S-s-spasibo, chto dali mne . . . chto dali mne etot shans . . .”

His pubescent voice cracked as he searched for the words.

A huff, a growl, then Masumi yanked open his workbook; furious at himself for stumbling over such a simple phrase.

“Spasibo, chto dali mne etot shans – Ya ochen’ blagodaren!” he read aloud, repeating the phrase over and over and over again; closing his eyes and committing it to memory.

The carriage rumbled uncomfortably beneath him.

He’d been practicing his Northern for weeks; the long voyage from The Eastern Coast dedicated wholly and completely to the study of its alphabet and sentence structure.

Now, only the vocabulary was causing him issue.

And surely, he didn’t need to pour quite so much effort into the learning of it; surely the Staff at Nikiforov Manor spoke The Common Tongue, and surely he would learn more in time, and surely he would be forgiven for his unfamiliarity with the Northern words.

Still though . . . he wanted to make a good impression; and this was the best – not to mention _only_ – way he knew how to.

Because Masumi Keller was nothing, if not courteous; a trait which had been drilled into the very bedrock of his being over the course of his thirteen short years.

After all, ‘civility costs nothing’ – as his father used to say; and what a very great relief that was, because – as it just so happened – _nothing_ was exactly what Masumi had.

Masumi’s father, Giovanni Keller, was a soft-spoken, hard-working man from The Mountain Region; an aloof chameleon of a Diplomat with an encyclopedic knowledge of world cultures and an egregious propensity for idioms.

Approximately fourteen years prior, while on assignment to The Eastern Coast, that same Giovanni Keller had met a woman named Kubo Hinata; a compassionate idealist with a love of art and a mastery of languages, who worked as a typist at the Eastern Coast Consulate.

When the two began their courtship, so too did the rumors.

When they announced their engagement, they received warnings instead of congratulations.

When the day of their wedding arrived, the guests scarcely had faith that the marriage would last.

And shortly thereafter, when their first and only child was born, the world could only shrug and count the bizarre little family one person stranger.

For Masumi Keller was strange, indeed; a child of the world with no place of his own – a prodigy, a polyglot – a perpetual nomad with two lands and two tongues and two histories – and nowhere he truly called ‘home’.

Even his very name marked him as a curiosity; two worlds clashing in the same breath – mountains and coastlines, snow-caps and shores, limitless heights and infinite depths.

His nature would prove equally antithetical.

Being the son of a Roving Ambassador, Masumi grew up largely on the road – boarding in embassies and billeting with government officials – never living in any one place long enough to put down roots, or form any attachments of genuine substance. Far from the laissez-faire lifestyle of other world travellers, however, Masumi’s upbringing had been incredibly strict and regimented; due largely in part to his father’s career. Indeed, the young Masumi's existence was one of politics and diplomacy; where etiquette was law and manners meant everything.

This was not to say that his was a childhood of misery, however; far from it, in fact. His parents were both intelligent, accomplished, and kind; his education was peerless, his passions were encouraged, and what the young Masumi lacked in friendship and freedom, he more than made up for in knowledge and experience.

By age six, Masumi could find any country on a map and name its capital city. By age nine, he had a commanding grasp of all five of the languages his mother spoke. And by age thirteen, he’d set foot on more shores than a naval commander.

Yet, for all his worldliness, Masumi was soon to learn that no matter what country he came to, he would always find himself a stranger.

The modest carriage reeled; jostling the boy hard as it traversed from worn dirt onto polished slate.

At last, he had reached Nikiforov Manor.

Masumi scrambled to tuck his unruly hair back into place behind his ears and quickly shoved his Northern Language book back into his rucksack.

The creaky coach suddenly lurched to a stop, giving Masumi just enough time to re-tuck his shirt and straighten his lapels.

With one last deep breath, Masumi turned the handle and stepped out into the courtyard.

The sight which greeted him was not at all what he’d expected.

A far cry from the rustic villa he’d been envisioning, Nikiforov Manor was all polished marble and gleaming gold – an elegant monolith resting in fields of green, beneath a sunny azure sky.

The Castle was so magnificent, the boy nearly forgot to be nervous.

Nearly.

The coachman slowly shuffled over to collect his payment; ushering Masumi up the massive marble steps with an impatient flick of the wrist.

The boy steeled his resolve, and started up the stairs.

With any luck, this would be his new home.

For Masumi Keller had been given a marvellous opportunity; a one-of-a-kind career prospect that other boys his age could only dream of.

At any rate, it was a far cry better than the work house; which was where most other orphans inevitably wound up.

Masumi’s mother had been taken from the world far too soon; lost to a tragic accident when he was barely ten years old. His father, on the other hand, had passed much more recently – and under markedly more ordinary circumstances.

But, while the loss of his parents was tragic in its own right, Masumi had rather more pressing concerns at present; first and foremost of those being his distinct lack of inheritance.

Unfortunately for Masumi, being kin to a Diplomatic Envoy meant nothing in the way of peerage for himself; such titles were honorific in nature, and therefore acquired by favor – not inherited by birth. It was also unfortunate then, that the _particular_ Diplomatic Envoy to which Masumi was related had recently been revealed to be financially illiterate.

Apparently, it was Masumi’s mother who’d maintained the family books; a fact which became _glaringly obvious_ shortly after Hinata’s passing – if the family’s financial records were anything to go by. All of this had been explained to a grieving Masumi – in excruciating detail – by the ancient, runny-nosed clerk, whom the bank had assigned to oversee his father’s estate.

All of this together meant that, because Giovanni Keller had not seen fit to cultivate any investments in the final years of his life, Masumi stood to inherit absolutely no lands, or deeds, or properties, or any investments of any kind – save for a single, pitiful lump sum of cash.

And so, between that and his common blood, Masumi had suddenly found himself quite without a leg to stand on.

However, despite his father’s rather _unfortunate_ miscalculations – his lack of peerage and lack of property and lack of investments – there was _one_ gift that Giovanni Keller had been able to leave behind for his son.

His _connections_.

For Giovanni Keller had quite strategically endeared himself to a number of high and mighty people over the course of his long and decorated career; people who, upon learning of his son’s terrible misfortunes, had taken it upon themselves to help.

One such person, a friend of his father’s from The Southern Isles, just so happened to know a woman, whose daughter had married a Lord, whose cousin had worked with a man who held sway at Nikiforov Manor.

That man’s name was Yakov Feltsman.

 _Duke_ Yakov Feltsman.

And so, shortly after his father’s funeral, a very official-looking letter had made its way through the grapevine and into Masumi’s desperate hands; informing him, in no uncertain terms, that Nikiforov Manor was in dire need of a hall boy, and that the position was his, should he be interested.

Masumi knew he would be a fool not to accept; the job included room and board, the Manor was in a province he was more or less familiar with, and – more importantly – he really didn’t have anywhere else to go.

And so, with the last of his late-father’s meagre savings, Masumi purchased a one-way boat ticket to The Northern Territories and set off to build himself a new life.

With one final step, Masumi reached the top of the mammoth staircase; coming face to face with a pair of towering walnut doors.

He reached up and rapped the knocker without hesitation. Almost immediately, those great black doors swung open, revealing a scene which nearly sent Masumi to his knees.

Inside, the Castle was a literal sea of gold; gleaming fixtures and polished marble, arching windows and towering ceilings – the most massive, most wondrous sight Masumi had ever seen; and he’d watched the sun rise off every coast in the world.

The flurry of activity churning within was nearly as mesmerising as the décor itself. Dapper servants traversed the halls – dusting and polishing, mopping and sweeping – while blithe and bonny maids ferried laundry up the stairs. Beautiful Ladies in waiting and handsome valets swept by, following painted aristocrats and peacocking nobles in a parade of silks and gems and furs.

It was stunning – hypnotic almost – and so distracting that Masumi almost forgot what he was meant to be doing.

“Ah, you must be young Master Keller!” A jovial voice suddenly rang out.

Masumi jumped, spinning in search of its owner.

His hair flew out from behind his ears yet again.

The person who’d spoken was a portly older gentleman; completely bald, bespectacled, and – to Masumi’s very great relief – smiling.

“I am, Sir,” Masumi replied with a shallow bow; quickly tucking his shaggy tresses back into place.

“Josef Karpisek, Head Butler to Nikiforov Manor,” The man offered, extending a single white-gloved hand, “We’ve been expecting you”.

Masumi took Josef’s hand a shook it; firm and confident, as his father had taught him.

“I’m certain you’ll be wanting to get right to it, then,” Josef continued with a wink, “follow me”.

Masumi did as he was told; still entranced by the opulent surroundings.

Josef turned to the left and led him down a long, finely decorated corridor, right up to a pair of towering white doors.

“Here we are; Crown Prince Viktor’s personal parlour,” Josef announced, “His Imperial Highness and Duke Feltsman are within. No, no, don’t fret about your belongings, I’ll take care of those for you – there’s a lad – now, I realize the place might seem a bit _intimidating_ to start, but don’t you worry; once you’ve got everything sorted here, I’ll be back to show you to your quarters”.

Masumi’s eyes went wide; now _this_ he was _not_ prepared for.

Come to the castle – yes. Meet with Duke Feltsman – of course. Begin his tenure as hall boy – all well and good. But meeting The Crown Prince? Actually _speaking_ to him? On his _first day_? Before he’d even had a chance to –?

But, Masumi was denied even another single second of panic, as Josef had already obtained permission to enter, and was presently announcing him.

Masumi’s feet carried him in automatically as he frantically reviewed his Northern.

‘ _Spasibo, chto dali mne etot shans – Ya ochen’ blagodaren. Spasibo, chto dali mne etot shans – Ya ochen’ blagodaren. Spasibo, chto dali mne etot shans – Ya ochen’ blago–_ ’

He walked only as fast as Josef did – stopped when he stopped; bowed as he bowed.

He didn’t dare look up.

“Thank You, Master Karpisek – that will be all”.

Masumi could feel The Butler’s comforting presence retreat back the way they’d come; heard the click of the latch as the doors swung shut.

‘ _Spasibo, chto dali mne etot shans – Ya ochen’ blagodaren. Spasibo, chto dali mne_ –’

“You may rise”.

Again, Masumi did as he was told; properly taking in the room – and The Crown Prince – for the first time.

The young monarch looked positively dainty; sitting before him in an oversized magenta armchair. Long silver tresses were tied up with black velvet ribbon, to keep them from obscuring his youthful features; which were lovely enough to be fey. He wore an elegant three-piece ditto suit, fashioned out of the finest periwinkle brocade, with matching silk damask rococo heels. Between his lily-white skin and lace-trimmed frock coat, The Crown Prince looked altogether like a porcelain doll come to life.

But despite his delicate appearance, the young monarch had a certain gravitas about him; an air of regality which aged him well beyond his eleven years.

And those _eyes_ ; so bright and so blue, as though they’d been chiselled from the very heart of a glacier . . .

Thankfully, Masumi had not been left alone at the mercy of those unsettling arctic eyes; a gruff, balding man towered over the petite Crown Prince, whom Masumi supposed to be none other than Duke Feltsman.

“Master Keller,” The Crown Prince greeted, his dulcet, pre-pubescent voice taking command of the room, “welcome to Nikiforov Manor”.

“Thank you, Your Imperial Highness,” Masumi replied; slow and measured. He took a subtle breath, before regarding the man who must have been Duke Feltsman, “Your Serene Highness”.

A wry look passed between the two nobles; as if they had not expected Masumi to be quite so well-versed in courtly graces.

“We are most pleased to make your acquaintance, Master Keller; I hope the journey did not prove too arduous?” The Duke offered, speaking for the first time.

His voice was as gruff as his expression, but his words were edged in sympathy; a small comfort, considering Duke Feltsman had both the look and sound of a man who could snap Masumi in half like a twig.

“Not at all, Your Serene Highness,” Masumi replied, affecting his best imitation of his father; still speaking slowly and clearly, “it is my sincerest pleasure to be here”.

He graced them with a deferential nod; accidentally dislodging his scruffy brown locks for the umpteenth time, like some sort of uncultured tramp.

 _Curses_!

“I shant keep you long, Master Keller,” The Crown Prince continued, “I’m certain you’ll be wanting to retire, after your extensive travels. While I can appreciate that this particular audience is a touch unconventional, I do thank you for your indulgence. You see, Duke Feltsman has told me a great many things about you – the circumstances surrounding your employment here, in particular. I hope you will not think it too forward of me to personally make your acquaintance – I only desired to extend you my most earnest welcome . . . and offer you my sincerest condolences”.

For a moment, Masumi was too surprised to find his tongue.

“S-s-spasibo, chto . . . chto dali mne etot shans – Ya ochen’ blagodaren,”

The silence was palpable as the boy awaited their response.

Yakov’s brows slowly rose in amusement; the Crown Prince’s mouth turned up ever-so-slightly at the corner.

A dulcet string of flawless Northern replied.

“Ne stoit blagodarnosti”.

Masumi let out silent sigh of relief.

“Well now, we won’t take up any more of your time, Master Keller,” The Duke assured, “Master Karpisek will show you to your quarters presently, and begin instructing you in your duties tomorrow. Do as he bids and I’m certain you’ll find yourself right at home here”.

Masumi nodded in earnest; fringe falling even further in front of his eyes.

Ugh; how _embarrassing_.

The young man turned about as gracefully as he was able, praying he could keep his composure for the ten seconds it would take to reach the safety of the gilded halls.

All things considered, Masumi supposed his first audience with The Crown Prince had been more or less successful – at least he hadn’t _completely_ butchered his Northern . . .

He was nearly out the door, when –

“A moment more, Master Keller”.

The Prince’s voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

Masumi slowly turned back around, approaching The Crown Prince with another deep bow.

“Yes, Your Imperial Highness?”

The Prince was silent a moment more; scrutinizing Masumi before rising from his chair.

As he approached, he tugged at the bow of his black velvet hair-ribbon; letting loose a cascade of silver strands which tumbled about his shoulders like a mercury waterfall.

He held the ribbon out to Masumi.

“For your hair,” he offered; not friendly, exactly, but not derisive either – merely straightforward and prudent.

“I –” Masumi faltered, “Your Imperial Highness, I couldn’t possibly –”

“It’s no trouble –” The Prince dismissed, “I’ve dozens more”.

Masumi’s gaze flickered to Duke Feltsman, who nodded his assent.

With a little nod of his own, Masumi accepted the gift.

“Thank you, My Prince”.

At long last, the poor, shell-shocked boy was free to go.

Masumi all but bolted back out into the hall; black velvet ribbon still clutched in his hand.

 

*****

 

_MONTH 1, DAY 14_

 

“Master Keller! The new ten-year Bordeaux is in –”

“Master Keller – Dowager Matilda is in a huff about her tea again–”

“Master Keller, have you seen the guest-list for –?”

“ _WE NEED A FLAMBÉ ON THE CHERRIES JUBILEE_!”

“– but we can’t find a space for it! And now the crate is wedged in the door!”

“– it’s the same old gripe about her honey –!”

“– tonight’s soiree? I know I put it down here somewhere –”

“ _ANYONE ON THAT JUBILEE_?”

“Oh! There you are, Master Keller! You know, it’s the darnedest thing – but we’ve _completely_ run out of silver polish! Can you believe it?”

“– but it’s not my fault this time, I swear! I used a whole _tablespoon_ of the stuff! Her cup was practically _oozing_ –!”

“– and I can’t, for the life of me, remember where I left it! Please, I have to find it! It has all the RSVP’s with the meal orders–”

“– So if the new place settings aren’t buffed by tomorrow it’s not because I’m shirking my duties or anything. But . . . since there’s nothing more I can do, I’m just going to beg off a little early today –”

“ _WE NEED SOMEONE ON THAT JUBILEE_ – _NOW_!”

Masumi wove through the crowded castle kitchen; half a dozen staff nipping at his heels.

“ _FLAMBÉING JUBILEE_!” Masumi hollered, making his way over to the great gas stove.

He swept the scalding skillet of sweet cherries up off the flames; swirling the contents without breaking his stride and issuing orders to each of his charges in turn.

 “Paxton – bring me another cup of tea: lady grey, plain – _now._ Sasha – the Bordeaux is replacing the Chianti in the deep cellar – and the Chianti is being released into the staff pool,” he explained, snatching up a bottle of rich amber rum and pouring it over the cherries as he swirled, “I’ve no idea how you got that crate stuck, but I don’t want you damaging the doorframe any further trying to yank it back out. So _take the Chianti_ from the _deep cellar_ to the _staff pantry_ first – then ferry the Bordeaux to the deep cellar _by hand_. Once the wines have been seen to, _then_ you can deal with the crate; _carefully_ break it down far enough to get it out of the doorway, then take it out back, hack it up, and put it with the rest of the kindling,”

Masumi abruptly turned about-face, still swirling as he made his way to the utensils, in search of a long match.

“Nanette – there’s an extra copy of the guest list in Duke Feltsman’s office. I made a duplicate for his records and the budget –”

Masumi snatched up a foot-long match, struck it on the rough stone wall, and set the cherries ablaze.

“– you have my permission to use that one, but _do not lose it_. Nikolai is already starting his prep and _he needs those numbers now_. And _Francois_ –” Masumi turned to face the notoriously lazy footman; still swirling the cherries as the flames began to subside. “Nice try – but just last week I ordered enough silver polish to buff every tine in the castle _twice over_. Care to tell me what you _actually_ need to beg off early for?”

Masumi turned and hollered for the jubilee’s plated cream ice, while a sheepish Francois scratched the back of his head.

“I, uh . . . heard there were some players passing through The Town By The Sea,” the footman muttered, “I thought I might ask Claudia if she–”

Masumi sighed, “Finish _half_ ,” he allowed, deftly ladling the cherries over the freshly-scooped cream ice, “that’s four _full_ settings – then you may go. But just know that the rest will have to be done _in addition to_ whatever duties you have scheduled tomorrow – and if you rush and do a poor job of the first half today, I _will_ have you re-do them. _CHERRIES JUBILEE UP_!”

The next moment, another of the serving staff swooped in to whisk the finished dessert out to whatever lord or lady had demanded it.

Still holding the scalding pan, Masumi searched the kitchen.

“Paxton? _PAXTON_!”

“Right here, Sir!”

Masumi nearly jumped; the lanky barman having popped up right behind him.

“Hold that tea steady,” Masumi commanded, “if this isn’t sweet enough to please our _beloved_ dowager, _nothing ever will be_ –”

Slowly and carefully, Masumi poured the lingering remnants of the cherries jubilee into the teacup; sugar, rum, and cherry juice colouring it a sweet, cloudy pink.

“There. Stir it well and strain it first,” Masumi commanded, “Don’t bring it to her gritty”.

With a grateful nod, Paxton swept out the door to once again face the infamous Dowager Matilda.

May Mercy look kindly on his soul . . .

“Masumi!”

The Head Butler swivelled, coming face to face with Nikiforov Manor’s electric young herald; Minami Kenjirou.

“Masumi . . . _he’s here_ ”.

The Butler’s heart nearly stopped, “How far off?” he demanded.

Minami shrugged, “Not even to the grounds yet, probably. I’ve been watching from the ramparts all morning – came running the instant I glimpsed the coach through the trees – just like you said to!”

Masumi smiled, “Well done Master Kenji,” he praised, “you have my thanks”.

Without another word, Masumi was off to welcome his replacement.

The Head Butler swept through the Castle like a gale-force wind; back straight, strides determined, head held high. Loitering staff parted like the tide to let him pass; all knowing full well the look of a man who was _not to be bothered_.

Masumi arrived in the grand foyer mere moments before the great black doors swung open.

Finding his mark, Masumi took a deep breath, stood up straight and smoothed down his lapels.

This was it.

The moment he’d been dreading.

Or, more accurately, the moment he’d been desperately trying not to dread.

Because this shouldn’t be a dreadful thing, really; Master Giacometti’s arrival was a happy occasion. Nikiforov Manor was gaining a practiced Maître D’, Minako would be reunited with her loving beau, and Masumi would finally have a moment’s rest; a win for everyone.

Unless, of course, this Christophe Giacometti proved to be incompetent – or happened to be a lush, or was careless in his duties, or was dense, or cruel, or just generally obnoxious – or if he turned out to be some sort of devious charlatan with devices on Minako’s heart – or, mercy forbid, was a ‘hugger’ – or any number of terrible things all well within the realm of possibility.

Beyond the gaping maw of the entryway, the shadow of a human silhouette drifted into the grand foyer; back-lit and obscured by the glare of the sun.

Masumi plastered on a practiced smile and gracefully stepped forward to shepherd the uncertain stranger.

“Welcome to Nikiforov Manor, Sir,” he greeted, all grace and airs, “You must be –

An angel.

A mirage, a vision, a trick of the light – that’s what this man must be, surely; for no human alive had any business being so beautiful.

“– Master Giacometti,” Masumi finished, without missing a beat; cool and collected as always.

The angel inclined his head, regarding Masumi with a velvety smile.

“I am,” he replied, the rich vibrato of his warm tenor shooting straight to Masumi’s knees, “. . . however, it’s _Chris_ , to my friends,” he added with a wink.

When Minako had used the word ‘Adonis’ to describe her city-dwelling friend, Masumi had assumed it to be hyperbole. After all, what business would an _Adonis_ have working at The City Grande Hotel?

But as Masumi ushered in their new hire, ‘Adonis’ was truly the only word coming to mind.

Christophe Giacometti was incredibly young and fair, with full, pouty lips and a lean, athletic frame. Clearly a gentleman of fine taste, he was painstakingly well-groomed and put-together, from the modern cut of his short, luscious locks to the polished toes of his cognac-coloured wingtips. He sported traces of rich cologne and a stylish navy blue frock coat – made of the finest wool his means would allow, no doubt.

And he was tall – _very_ tall, in fact – at least six feet; which was nearly as tall as Masumi himself.

But despite the man’s elegant stature and sophisticated dress, there was an air of mischief about him; something wicked and deeply indulgent that glimmered in his beautiful hazel eyes.

Masumi quickly squashed the swarm of butterflies fluttering to life in his stomach.

“Masumi Keller, Head Butler and interim Maître D’,” he offered, extending a crisp, white-gloved hand, “We’ve been expecting you”.

The Butler did his level best not to swoon as the new Maître D’ took his hand; absently wondering if _Chris-to-my-friends_ used belladonna drops – or perhaps coated those long, lovely lashes in lamp-black – to make those enchanting hazel eyes appear so impossibly big and beguiling.

Chris’s perfect lips sported a flirty grin.

“Enchanté, Monsieur,” he purred; regarding The Butler with a less-than-subtle once-over.

Masumi politely released the man’s hand and demurely cleared his throat; staunchly ignoring the little tingles running up and down his spine.

“I’m certain you’ll be wanting to get right to it, then,” he continued, measured and even as ever, “follow me – no need to fret about your belongings; our footmen will see those to your new quarters”.

Masumi turned away sharply; feeling almost as though he needed to catch his breath.

Christophe Giacometti certainly was gorgeous; of that, there was no doubt.

However . . . he also appeared to be a terrible hedonist; and a terrible rake to boot.

The next instant, Master Giacometti was at his hip.

“And . . . where exactly shall I be following you to, mon ami?” The man quipped; a level of familiarity that Masumi was wholly unprepared for.

“I – w-well, I –” Masumi stuttered, suddenly stopping short.

The Butler took a deep breath before continuing, “– I thought it prudent to begin with a brief tour,” he explained, “introductions, familiarization with the facilities, appraising you of your new duties and the like,”

A thought suddenly struck him.

“Unless . . . you wish some time to recuperate, after your travels?”

Truthfully, Masumi hadn’t considered that such a need might arise; the man had only come from The City, after all – a restful, half-day journey along a safe, well-travelled road. Regardless, Masumi supposed it only polite to offer; Monsieur Giacometti did seem the type to possess rather delicate sensibilities.

But the man only waved a dismissive hand, “And divest myself of your _shining_ company?” he drawled, “Perish the thought, chéri”.

Masumi swallowed hard.

Oh. He was using pet names, now.

Good.

Good, good, good.

“Right. Well, this way, then,” Masumi directed, once again turning away as quickly as he could, “we’ll start outside with the grounds, while we have the best light”.

“Ahh, a walk amongst the wisteria trees; lead on, darling”.

And though Masumi couldn’t see it, he could hear the smirk in Christophe Giacometti’s voice.

The Butler stifled a groan; cursing himself as he headed for the eastern staff corridor and service door beyond.

Just his luck; the only person to catch his eye in _ages_ , and not only was Christophe Giacometti here to _replace_ him, he was also some sort of smoothing-talking scoundrel . . . and Minako’s intended to boot.

Masumi frowned; this was _not_ going to end well.


	2. Act 1, Scene 2: Inciting Incident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Masumi is bad at compromising; Chris is bad at first impressions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY! The wait is over! 
> 
> Thanks for bearing with me these last 3 months - I didn't expect to go so long between chapters, but life had other plans. I just want to take a second to thank you so much for your support. I'm not very good at responding to comments, but I see every single kudos and read every single message and I'm always touched by how kind and lovely everyone is - so thank you for everything <3
> 
> For more, find me on tumblr at [silverscribblesuniverse](https://silverscribblesuniverse.tumblr.com/) or check out my [other fics on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_Scribbles/works)!
> 
> Note: Because this fic is set in its own universe, rather than a historically-accurate Europe, I've established my own conventions for noble titles and age-based-laws and forms of address and things - so I apologize for the anachronisms, but at least I'll try to be consistent, haha. Further explanations (and translations) can be found in the End Notes.
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS:  
> COURSE LANGUAGE  
> ALCOHOL CONSUMPTION - UNDERAGE DRINKING, EXCESSIVE DRINKING, VOMITING, CONSENSUAL ROMANTIC ENCOUNTER UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF ALCOHOL (Both parties over the age of 21. Enthusiastic consent. Make-out/groping - brief & fully clothed)  
> SEXUAL INNUENDO - FLIRTING, SEXUAL PROPOSITION, ROMANTIC ENCOUNTER (same as above)

_MONTH 1, DAY 14_

( _2 HOURS LATER_ )

 

Approximately two hours and a hundred thousand steps later found Masumi and his new charge in The Staff Hall; half way through orientation.

“. . . A bit of background, for starters: construction of Nikiforov Manor first began with Queen Svetlana Nikiforov, at the cessation of the Sea-Farer’s War. Later, it was restored and ruled by King Ilya, The Third – Crown Prince Ilya the Third, at the time. However, as you are doubtless aware, the property is currently home to the court of Crown Prince Viktor Nikiforov, while His Imperial Majesty resides at the Royal Palace in The Northern Capitol.

"As such, we host a great many representatives from various noble lines around the world. It is therefore our duty – your duty, rather – to ensure that the needs of such guests are being met on a daily basis.

"The most challenging aspect of the job, for most, is mastering the courtly etiquette required of those in our position. A single-peerage system is rigorous enough learn; but such etiquette pales in comparison to the Comprehensive Order of Precedence which we employ here at Nikiforov Manor.

"As scion to a mosaic province, Crown Prince Nikiforov is dedicated to recognizing the many different cultures which enrich both his land and his court. That is why – in addition to the official title of their homeland – each delegate is granted an Honorary Rank of Distinction. 

"The usage of nation-specific titles and traditional forms of address hardly requires explanation, of course; these we properly uphold out of deepest respect for the language, history and politics of our esteemed friends and allies. This will require you to familiarize yourself with the noble ranks of several Kingdoms, Empires and Nation States across the globe, of course; but, having come from such an upscale establishment yourself, I have every confidence in your abilities.

"The Honorary Rank of Distinction, however, is simply that; an honorary rank, rooted in the traditions of monarchial aristocracy, and awarded as best befits the standing of the recipient in their own homeland.

"Now, those of The Imperial Northern Court are not so ignorant as to believe the ranks and titles of monarchial aristocracy to be interchangeable with all systems of governance worldwide. However, we’ve found that a small modicum of consistency helps to ensure that all our residents are afforded the utmost dignity and respect. The Crown Prince would count it a very grave thing indeed, for any one of our delegates to be unduly discounted due to carelessness or outright ignorance.

"There are also those in court who much prefer that our staff – and their fellow courtiers – address them by their Honorary Rank of Distinction, rather than their native title; those holding positions of a spiritual nature, in particular.

"Now, in anticipation of your arrival, I’ve drawn up a master schedule, along with an accompanying appendix of resident profiles; containing the appropriate forms of address for each individual, along with standing requests, daily routines, dietary restrictions, and the like.

"First and foremost, we cater to The Crown Prince; here, I’ve listed–”

The Butler’s soliloquy came to a screeching halt.

Christophe was staring at him very curiously now; both in the sense that Masumi seemed to him an oddity, and in the sense that The Maître D’s expression was deeply inquisitive.

“Master Giacometti?” The Butler queried “Is . . . anything the matter? Have I said something perplexing? Shall I repeat anything for you?”

The Maître D’ only smirked.

“No, no – do go on,” he purred, “I could listen to you all day, chéri”.

Presently, the two of them were set up across from one another at the head of a long wooden dining table; a veritable mountain of forms and files spread out between them. Masumi stood over the vast, knotted surface, showcasing various hand-written charts and lists and tables as he referenced them – outlining The Maître D’s new responsibilities.

This friendly little debrief marked the half-way point of Master Giacometti’s orientation – purposefully scheduled as a quick reprieve for the new Maître D’s undoubtedly aching feet, before starting a preliminary tour of the interior – but although Masumi’s information was of the utmost importance, Master Giacometti hardly seemed to be absorbing a thing. He just lazed there on the bench with a slouch in his spine and his chin in his hand; eyes vacant and dreamy – thoughts somewhere far, far away.

Masumi cleared his throat, “Very well. Going on, then . . .” he allowed, despite his own incredulity, “First and foremost, we cater to The Crown Prince; here, I’ve listed some other families of note, including: Marchioness Babicheva and her only daughter, Lady Mila – as well as Marquis Popovich, our castle clothier. Then, we have Count and Countess Altin, and their son Lord Otabek, our young Chamberlain – as well as the widowed Countess Crispino and her twin children, Lord Michele and Lady Sara.

"You may also want to familiarize yourself with our other titled staff – while not strictly considered ‘clientele’, their peerage will deserve the proper obeisance. There’s our Major Domo, Duke Feltsman, our Dance Master, Duchess Baranovskaya, and our musicians, Marquis Lee, Count Ji and the Vicount de la Iglesia.

"Additionally, a number of our chevaliers hold landed titles in addition to their knighthoods – such as the aforementioned Count Crispino, as well as Viscount Nekola, and Baron Cialdini. And of course, our dear Lady Oku–”

“Mountains”.

Masumi paused; taken aback by the unexpected interruption.

“I . . . beg pardon?”

“Your accent,” Christophe elaborated, “It’s subtle – and very difficult to place – but definitely indicative of The Mountain Region. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say . . . Southeastern Range? Or Northern Range, but with distinct influences of ‘something else’?”

Masumi only blinked in response; still grappling with the abrupt change of topic.

“So . . . am I correct?” Christophe wheedled, sporting his signature shit-eating grin, “or have I committed a most grievous offense on my very first day?”

Masumi took a moment more to find his tongue; partly to divine a satisfactory answer, and partly out of astonishment that someone like Christophe Giacometti at all concerned himself with causing offense to others.

“Ah, yes – ‘something else’,” he finally replied.

“But, Mountains?”

“Yes”.

“And, Northern Range Dialect?”

“Yes”.

“And?”

“And . . ?”

The Maître D’ sported a look just short of patronizing, “Mountain Region – Northern Range Dialect _and_ . . ?”

Masumi took a deep breath; surrendering to the steady fugue of small-talk.

“. . . Coastal”.

“Coastal . . ?” Christophe echoed; his brow creased in contemplation, “You don’t mean _Western_ Coast–?

“ _Eastern Coastal_ ,” The Butler clarified; more sharply than he’d intended.

It was always a fascination to people, the origins of one such as himself; and while Masumi might relish the opportunity to share his experiences, he knew these types of conversations only ever ended in one of two ways – with small-mindedness about either one or both of his heritages, or with pity, upon revealing what had become of his parents.

“Ah – Eastern Coastal!” Christophe exclaimed, like a school boy solving a math problem, “Of course! That’s what it is!”

Masumi held his breath, bracing for the interrogation sure to follow.

“Well, may just I say, it is an absolutely _divine_ blend, chéri,” Christophe purred, “I’m only ashamed I didn’t recognize it sooner . . .”

The Maître D’ fluttered his lashes.

Masumi could only gape in response – feeling rather _ashamed_ himself at the moment, as his stomach was suddenly full of butterflies again; no doubt resuscitated by the indulgent praise dripping from Christophe’s honeyed lips.

 _No_! _Bad butterflies_! Christophe Giacometti was a _colleague_! Not to mention, a _cad_! And _Minako’s cad_ , no less!

The Butler cleared his throat, “You hail from The Mountains too, unless I’m mistaken?” he posited, in lieu of acknowledging the compliment, “Western Range?”

Christophe beamed up at him, “Oui, oui, mon cher . . . mais c’est très facile à deviner”.

The Maître D’ winked; Masumi swore his heart might stop.

However, instead of allowing himself to go into cardiac arrest, The Butler merely shrugged.

“Por moi? Oui, assez facile”.

At this, Christophe’s mouth fell open in shock, “And he speaks The Western Range Dialect too – be still, my beating heart!” he swooned.

Masumi swallowed hard; _Mercy_ , even the man’s _histrionics_ were charming.

He forced his eyes sharply downward to prevent himself from staring.

“Yes. Well. Considering the history of this province, I imagine it would be a greater surprise if I _didn’t_ ,” Masumi dismissed.

“True . . .” Christophe allowed, leaning forward on his elbows with a grin, “but an endearing talent nonetheless”.

His voice was just a shade below seductive.

“Speaking of _endearing_ –” Masumi interjected, “there is one resident here, whom you’ll want to ‘ _endear_ ’ yourself to in short order,” he flipped through the mountain of files, clumsily resuming the orientation, “Ah. Yes. There we are. Her Royal Majesty, Dowager Queen Matilda von Eis – the late Princess Wilhelmine’s Mother, and grandmother to his Imperial Highness. A charming woman, really, but rather . . . ‘ _forceful_ ’, in her manner. A great many of our footmen refuse to tend her, so I would advise you to personally make her acquaintance as soon as you feel prepared–”

Christophe sighed; settling back into his previous state of disinterested detachment.

The Butler rambled on, resuming his pre-rehearsed speech with ease; hoping that the monotonous drone of facts would numb his interest like a bracing bucket of ice water and persuade his heart to stop beating such an erratic rhythm against his ribs.

It was both a relief and a disappointment, to no longer bear the weight of Christophe’s full attention; but although the Maître D’ displayed a complete lack of interest, Masumi could have sworn the man still hung on his every word.

 

_*****_

 

_MONTH 1, DAY 14_

( _APPROXIMATELY 45 MINUTES LATER_ )

 

The afternoon wore on, the mantle clock produced a sluggish chime, and – at long last – The Butler read out the very last line of the very last page of the very last file.

“And . . . and I believe that should be the whole of it,” Masumi reluctantly concluded; forced to abandon the sanctuary of cold hard facts for the tumultuous seas of small-talk. He took a deep breath, ensuring all the stomach butterflies had been safely snared in nets of propriety, before looking back to The Maître D’.

“Any questions?”

Christophe eyed the dizzying stacks of parchment towering before him.

“You’re quite certain this is all of it?” he quipped; sarcasm dripping from every syllable, “Surely there must be more . . .”

“I admit, the workload is daunting,” Masumi allowed, “however, you came highly recommended, and in time I’m sure you’ll come to–”

“I was only joking, chéri,” Christophe dismissed, “I’m certain I’ll manage somehow . . . perhaps with the assistance of Nikiforov Manor’s _charming_ interim Maître D’?”

His smirk was positively roguish.

Masumi cleared his throat, “Certainly. For starters, of course. His Imperial Highness does require that this transition be made with all haste, however”.

Undeterred, Christophe leaned forward on his elbows, resting his chin in his hands and focusing the whole of his attention on Masumi once more.

“So, if these are all _my_ duties, what then will be left to you, mon cher?” he asked, batting his big, beautiful eyes.

The butterflies burst free of their nets; Masumi nearly cursed aloud.

Really, it should be illegal for any one person to be so stunning.

Masumi cleared his throat again, nearly hacking himself raw, “I shall re-focus my efforts on my previous responsibilities as Head Butler, of course,” he replied, looking back down to the files and gathering them up into neat, orderly stacks.

“Which entails what, exactly?”

Masumi stopped dead in his tracks.

“You . . . don’t know what a butler does?”

“I have a general idea, yes,” Christophe assured, waving a dismissive hand, “but I was not born to wealth, and I’m certain the players and dumb shows have far exaggerated the realities”. He concluded with a dashing, toothy smile.

Masumi supposed he could not argue with that.

“Fair point,” he allowed, standing up straight and looking back to The Maître D’, “Well, if you’re truly interested; I manage the household, mostly”.

“Castle-hold”.

“Beg pardon?”

“Like ‘ _household_ ’, but we’re in a _castle_ , so . . . ‘ _castle-hold_ ’,” Christophe quipped.

“Ah,” Masumi deadpanned, “Yes. Very droll”.

“I thought so,” Christophe smirked, “Do continue”.

Masumi took a deep breath, “Right. Well, management of the household includes a great many things. I ensure general tidiness and supervise the housekeeping staff, of course, but I am also charged with maintaining the various artworks and antiques; ensuring proper care and storage of fine linens, silverware, china, crystal and the like. This includes general upkeep of the building; repairs and replacements and so on. I also do no small amount of hosting, in addition to the planning and execution of social gatherings, dinner parties and other major events. Though my most important responsibility is maintaining the butlery”.

Christophe’s expression went blank.

“The . . . the what?”

“. . . The butlery”.

“The _butlery_?”

“The butlery”.

Then, Christophe’s expression turned wicked.

“You made that word up”.

“I did not”.

“What? You _must_ have! It cannot _possibly_ be real!”

“I assure you, it is”.

“I speak _four_ languages, darling,” Christophe chuckled, “and I am telling you, there is _no way_ that's a real word!”

Masumi bristled, “Well, I speak _nine_ – and I’m _quite certain_ that it is”.

Christophe gasped, slapping a palm on the table, “No!”

“ _Yes_ ,” Masumi insisted, “in fact, I believe it to be the very origin of the term ‘ _butler_ ’ – as in, ‘ _one who minds the butlery_ ’.”

Now, Christophe was smirking again; hazel eyes glittering with mischief.

“So . . . a butler maintains the butlery?”

“Precisely”.

“Which means a Head Butler is head of the butlery?

“I suppose . . . more or less”.

“Well then, only one question remains,” Christophe mused.

“Which is?”

“. . . What exactly _is_ a butlery?”

Christophe sported his signature shit-eating grin; Masumi nearly groaned.

Oh.

He was only being teased; again.

Mercy, deliver him from whimsy.

“ _A butlery_ ,” he explained through gritted teeth, “is a room common to most manor houses where the crockery and cutlery are stored”.

“Ah,” Christophe deflated, “Riveting”.

Masumi raised a brow, bristling at the sarcasm, “It also happens to be where certain wine casks and ales are kept”.

“Now you have my attention!”

“ _In addition to the butlery_ , I personally have been charged with overseeing inventory for _the entire castle_ ,” Masumi continued; calm and even once more, “It is my job to ensure that all pantries, stores and cellars are fully stocked at all times”.

Christophe sighed, “And we’re back to ‘riveting’,” he quipped.

Masumi was not amused.

Christophe snorted, “Oh, come now, darling!” he cajoled, “it was a joke!”

Suddenly, another voice entered the fray.

“Oh, Chris . . . didn’t anybody warn you? I’m afraid humor is absolutely wasted on our dear Head Butler . . .”

Christophe’s eyes lit up; Masumi’s eyes rolled.

“Ah . . . _there she is_!” The Maître D’ grinned, leaping up from his perch with a spring in his step.

“Chris!” Mianko cheered, bouncing over to greet him.

They embraced with an audible ‘ _whump_ ’ as Christophe lifted the Ex-Prima right up off her feet; spinning them both in a jubilant circle, before placing her gently back down on her own two feet.

“My dearest Lady!” Christophe beamed, pressing a genteel kiss to the back of her hand, "I was wondering when I would run into you again!”

“Well, it wasn’t my intention to leave you lonely – believe me,” Minako giggled, “but _someone_ insisted on keeping you all to himself”.

“Not by choice,” Masumi interjected; wholly put-out by the sudden intrusion, “it’s standard procedure, I assure you”.

"See?" Minako sighed, looking back to the Maître D’, “no sense of humor whatsoever”.

“Well, between the two of us, I'm certain we can help him cultivate one,” Christophe replied with a wink.

Masumi took a deep breath as the two shared a snicker at his expense.

Well, so much for holding Master Giacometti’s _limited_ attention . . .

The Butler ignored a sharp pang in his chest as he turned back to the files; knowing full-well there was no point carrying on with Minako present.

The affectionate pair had migrated back to the table and now sat side-by-side on the bench; close enough to breathe one another's air as they exchanged quips and pleasantries and flirtations not five feet from where the grouchy Butler stood.

Though, Masumi supposed he could not begrudge them their little reunion; it had been quite some time since they'd last seen each other, and The Butler knew all too well how ineffective letters were at stemming the twin tides of longing and loneliness.

Besides, it was probably better to let them catch up now and be done with it, so that he and Master Giacometti could finish the rest of the orientation in peace.

A glance at the mantle clock assured Masumi that they were currently still on schedule; so, with a resigned frown, The Butler looked to the rest of the room, busying himself with errant tidying and idle housekeeping as Christophe and Minako blithely chatted away.

Presently, the two were engaged in an intensely secretive conversation about some dancer named ‘Lucia’; though why such a thing should be secretive, Masumi had no idea, as The Staff Hall was currently empty, and The Butler himself had absolutely no knowledge of – nor interest in – this apparently scandalous character.

Masumi patrolled the room, snatching up an empty tankard from where it had been abandoned on a ledge and dumping it into the wash bin as Minako's giddy giggles rolled around the room.

“Oh, Chris! You are just _too much_!”

It took every ounce of Masumi's willpower to refrain from rolling his eyes.

Though . . . he had to admit, the two certainly did seem _happy_ ; not to mention, well suited.

Masumi couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Minako smile so wide – and now, Christophe practically oozed congeniality; so unlike the seductive rogue he'd first encountered in the foyer.

Although, it was hardly peculiar for a man to be on his best behavior in the presence of his intended, was it? After all, even the most unconscionable scoundrels feigned innocence when pursuing a lover; like a wolf in sheep's clothing.

Or perhaps Christophe was really no more than a harmless eccentric, and Masumi had misjudged The Maître D’s earlier advances; mistaking his melodramatic flattery for genuine interest.

Or . . . or, perhaps Christophe hadn’t been flirting at all, and Masumi had misread the situation entirely; his rusty heart fooling him into thinking that someone so undeniably magnetic might ever notice anyone as utterly unremarkable as he.

Rather than dwell on it, Masumi drifted over to the sideboard, retrieved the box of matches from the upper left drawer, and re-lit the western sconce; all while politely ignoring the bubbly pair at the table.

Minute after minute ticked by as Christophe and Minako carried on; thirteen of them, to be exact. Masumi knew this for a fact, as he'd compulsively checked the hour twenty-six times since her arrival, and the long hand on the mantle clock had only moved half that much.

A single minute more, and Masumi could feel the tenuous threads of his patience beginning to unravel.

“Forgive the interruption, My Lady,” he apologized, casually finding his way back over to the table, “but, while I hate to cut your reunion short, we’re currently in the middle of Master Giacometti’s orientation, so I’m afraid –”

Masumi stopped short.

While Christophe seemed completely untroubled by the interjection, Minako was shooting him a very pointed look indeed; one which quite clearly said, “ _Masumi Keller, I swear by earth and sky; if you ruin this for me now, you will not live to see another day_ ”.

“– I’m afraid you will just have to join us on our little tour,” Masumi surrendered, hollow as a blown egg, “if you’re feeling up to the jaunt, of course, My Lady?”

Minako smiled, all traces of homicidal intent gone, "Of course," she beamed, taking Christophe’s arm as they stood, “A turn about The Castle sounds _lovely_ ”.

“I couldn't agree more!” Christophe chirped.

“Very well,” Masumi acquiesced, keeping his words slow and smooth to conceal his mounting frustration, “we should start with The Kitchen and Dining Rooms, where Master Giacometti will be spending the majority of his –”

“Actually, would it be alright if we visit The Drawing Room first?” Minako wheedled, turning her plaintive eyes on the new Maître D’, “I left the other ladies there and they are just _dying_ to meet you, Chris!”

“And I, them!” The Maître D’ replied with a winsome smile, “lead on, chérie!”

The two made a beeline for the eastern exit, leaving Masumi to follow in their wake.

The Butler sighed; it was going to be a very long day.

 

*****

 

_13 Years & 10 Months Previous . . ._

 

As the days became weeks and weeks became months, thirteen-year-old Masumi Keller slowly settled in to his imposing new abode – and demanding new routine.

Every morning he rose before the sun, donned his ruddy work clothes, and quietly crept through the staff corridors; taking care not to rouse the others as he set about his chores.

As Hall Boy, Masumi served as principal custodian to the other members of staff. He was not expected to tend their personal needs, of course; but rather, his job was to ensure general tidiness and upkeep of their shared spaces – The Staff Hall, in particular.

Apart from the small dungeon, scattered armories, uniform barracks, and various storerooms, the basement floor of Nikiforov Manor was dedicated to housing the hundreds of staff who ensured its continual upkeep and maintenance – housekeepers and launderers and footmen, chefs and barkeeps and servers, gardeners and masons and grooms, fletchers and blacksmiths and tailors – everyone from the humblest dishwasher to the proudest chevalier. All were granted private lodging within the monolithic manse; a little piece of the castle they could call their very own.

In addition to these personal chambers, a few communal spaces had been provided for the staff as well – a smattering of small parlours, a tea room, a shared office or two, even a small games room with an easel and card table – but the most common, most crowded, most considerable of all was The Staff Hall; a massive sandstone dining room located directly below The Kitchen.

The Staff Hall was the central hub for all employee-related goings-on in The Castle – from work announcements and regular meetings, to holiday parties and idle gossip – but, first and foremost, it was their cantina; a craggy eatery worn smooth by the daily tide of staff rolling out with their morning tea and rolling in for their nightly supper.

Despite the subterranean location, The Staff Hall was surprisingly cozy and comfortable; notably spacious, warmly lit, and fashioned to give one the distinct impression of 'home'. The decor, though admittedly sparse, was undeniably elegant; featuring a few large, lovely oil paintings of picturesque seascapes, along with massive wrought-iron sconces which bathed the room in a cheerful amber glow. Five massive wooden tables ran down the center of the room; each designed to seat twenty, all lined up end to end without so much as a millimetre between them. From one end of the room to the other, they stretched; parallel to the north wall, which housed a series of gargantuan cupboards, sideboards and hutches all along the length of it.

It was in this room that the young Masumi Keller spent the vast majority of his time; earning his keep. It was his responsibility to ensure that The Staff Hall was always clean and organized; to sweep up the soot and mop the mottled stone tiles, to wash all the dishes and put them away, to sort and polish the mismatched silverware, to light the wrought-iron sconces every morning and snuff them out every night, to replace the candles when they burned down too low, to ensure all the benches stayed in good repair, to wipe the table-tops to a spotless shine, to collect and dispose of any lingering trash, and to otherwise help out where he could and do as he was told.

It was a gritty, thankless position, with errands which often felt more like a club hazing ritual than the duties of a respectable career; such as the time their Head of Kitchen sent him on a wild goose chase for ‘room temperature ice’ – a quest which Masumi had dedicated a tremendously embarrassing amount of time to, before Josef had taken pity on him and let him in on the joke.

Ribbing aside, Masumi considered himself exceedingly lucky to have found a place at Nikiforov Manor. Though he was often uncomfortable with the casual – borderline crass – mannerisms of his colleagues, he was never in wont of anything, nor treated unfairly, so supposed he couldn’t complain.

And though the work was not the least bit stimulating or glamorous, Masumi dutifully rose to the challenge; always doing the very best he possibly could, for no reason other than his own personal satisfaction.

Well, his own personal satisfaction, and the neurotic itch of perfectionism constantly buzzing away in the back of his prepubescent brain.

But even that, Masumi counted more as a help than a hindrance.

It soon became apparent that Josef, Yakov, and the other staff had very minimal expectations of him – being a child and all – so Masumi’s keen, nearly compulsive attention to detail only made it that much easier for the young Hall Boy to impress his superiors and endear himself to his colleagues. Josef often joked that Masumi spoiled them all by keeping such a spotless hall, and that he really ought to slack off a bit more, before the other staff became too complacent.

On the intermittent occasions when Masumi did not find himself with something to dust or buff or sort, he was given permission to peruse The Library and walk about the grounds; on the condition that his clothes be clean and pressed, and that he always act appropriately in the presence of nobility – a caveat which Yakov hardly felt the need to impress, considering to whom it applied.

In this way, Masumi was able to informally continue his studies; something which brought The Hall Boy tremendous amounts of joy, as it allowed him to practice his various languages and even pick up a few new ones over the years. This was something which also brought _Josef_ tremendous amounts of joy, as Masumi's studies seemed to be the only thing tempting enough to ever coax him up out of the basement.

This wasn’t to say that Masumi was moody or contrary or disdainful – quite the opposite in fact – but, it could not be denied that the young Hall Boy's social circle was almost entirely devoid of peers.

The simple truth of the matter was that those of Masumi’s station were not of his age, and those of his age were not of his station.

The other common folk were, by-and-large, adult staff engaging in either tedious or tawdry past times; none of which appealed to Masumi in the slightest. There were a few other youngsters of common rank about The Castle, of course – such as Frieda Baumann, The Scullery Maid, whose mother was possibly the most talented pastry chef ever employed at Nikiforov Manor – but such children were few and far between.

Needless to say, most people did not find residency in the basement of a castle conducive to starting a family; and so, staff with no plans for parenthood tended to stay on at Nikiforov Manor for decades at a time, while those with familial aspirations wound up resigning more often than not.

This meant that a vast majority of the children residing at Nikiforov Manor were the descendants of nobility; sons and daughters of titled gentry in the young Crown Prince’s court. And while socializing with such other children was not ‘ _discouraged_ ’ per se, it was admittedly hard to cultivate a friendship when one was required to address their companion – who might be several years younger, several feet shorter, or several decibels whinier – as “My Lord”, “My Lady”, or “My Liege”.

But even this did not discourage Masumi, who – as always – remained focused, accommodating and courteous to a fault.

Though truthfully, the fact that he was able to maintain such an agreeable disposition was less a mark of the boy's integrity and more a consequence of practice. After all, with a name like his, Masumi Keller was very used to not belonging anywhere.

“ _Neither fish nor fowl, nor good red herring_ ,” as his father used to say.

And certainly this new life was . . . ‘ _different_ ’; different from anything he'd ever experienced before, different than what he'd wanted or planned or even hoped his life to be – but in terms of environment and etiquette and expectations, Masumi supposed things really hadn’t changed all that much.

And certainly, being a Hall Boy was not quite the same as being a traveler, or a diplomat, or a scholar; but he’d been allowed to pursue his studies, at his own pace, on his own time, with the most vast and beautiful collection of linguistic tomes in the world at his disposal.

And certainly, the job was a tremendous amount of work – demanding, physical labour that he was not at all accustomed to, which chaffed his skin and strained his muscles and felt alien beneath his skin – but there was a certain pride in knowing that his pains were necessary, appreciated, and well worth the effort. Not to mention the fact that his fastidious nature gave him a genuine talent for the job; even if ‘the job’ didn’t amount to much more than sorting and scrubbing.

And certainly, it could get lonely at times, with no one sharing his age and status and interests; but Yakov was helpful and Josef was kind, and by this point in his life Masumi had made a habit of adaptation – being able to thrive no matter where he’d been transplanted, like a particularly stubborn weed.

And so, even if Nikiforov Manor wasn’t really where he belonged, nor where he’d ever imagined himself, nor even where he most wanted to be, at least he could call it home.

As the years passed, he would come to discover that ‘home’ was more than just an honorific for the stately, secluded castle – more than an inky symbol tacked onto a grandiloquent definition, or the word one might use to express the nebulous concepts of love and loyalty and belonging – because, as the years passed, Nikiforov Manor became his whole world; a place cherished above all others, by the dispossessed curiosity known as Masumi Keller.

It was the place where he lived. The place where he worked. The place where he laid his head at night. The place where he studied. The place where he grew. The place where he kept all his books and baubles and belongings. The place where he received his first promotion. The place where he had his first kiss. The place where he made his first real friend. The place where he suffered his first heartbreak; and every subsequent one thereafter.

The place that had taken him in, when he’d had nowhere else to go.

It was life.

It was love.

It was home; the only real home he’d ever had.

 

 *****

 

_MONTH 1, DAY 14_

( _APPROXIMATELY 9 HOURS LATER_ )

 

Five-hundred-and-forty miserable minutes later, Masumi was finally free of Christophe Giacometti; now safe and secluded in his quiet, cozy bedchamber.

Soft, silvery moonlight trickled in through the high basement window, illuminating the room just enough to save Masumi the trouble of lighting a lantern as he saw to his night-time ablutions.

Slowly and silently, The Butler shut his grainy maple-wood door; nearly collapsing with relief upon hearing the click of the simple latch. From the inside pocket of his heavy, wool tailcoat The Butler produced a little brass key; deftly sliding it into the keyhole without a moment's hesitation. With a quick flick of the wrist, he locked himself in for the night.

Only once his door had been securely latched and bolted, did Masumi finally let out a groan.

It had been a very long day.

The time was nearly midnight now, and he'd finally caught up on all the work he'd had to delay, thanks to Christophe's orientation.

Masumi's remaining workload might not have been so bad, nor kept him up so late, had the afternoon gone according to plan; but with Minako in tow, what should have been a simple walk-through of the facilities had become an hours-long meet and greet, as the little party stopped to chat with every Lord and Lady and staff member under the sun.

Despite his best efforts to keep the afternoon on track and his attitude in check, Masumi was no match for the endless slough of irritants determined to sabotage his patience; just _chip_ - _chip_ - _chipping_ away at him, like a woodpecker concussing itself on a tree.

The Butler held out as long as he was able against the involuntary detours, inane chatter and inconvenient emotions, but as the sands ran down and the hour grew late, he'd eventually given in; surrendering to the futility of his efforts and carelessly releasing the new Maître D’ into Minako's cloying custody – which had undoubtedly been The Lady’s goal from the very start.

The three of them hadn't made it to every room of importance, unfortunately – with Minako insisting that The Library was much more interesting than The Larder, and The Music Room more enchanting than The Chiller, and so on – but Masumi supposed it hardly mattered which parts of The Castle may or may not have been viewed, as Master Giacometti hadn't been paying attention to a word he'd said anyway.

With a frown, Masumi slid the little brass key back into his breast pocket, before absently sliding his white cotton gloves off, finger by finger. Those too he tucked into the pocket of his heavy wool tailcoat, before doffing the whole thing and hanging it on the iron hook bolted to the front of his wardrobe.

He slowly wandered over to his bedside table; nimble toes tracing the familiar floor-plan with ease, even in the dark. With a quick tug, his black velvet hair ribbon came undone. That too, he carefully put in its proper place; right in the very centre of the beside table’s spotless surface.

Then, he unbuttoned his waistcoat and tugged loose his cravat, turning back towards the wardrobe; but as he did so, something caught his eye in the moonlight.

A tall, crisp pile of parchment; sitting proudly atop his otherwise barren desk.

It perched there like a gargoyle – waiting for him.

Watching him.

Mocking him.

Masumi shook out his hair, sauntered over, and snatched up the leaflets with a grimace; flipping through the pages with nihilistic detachment.

Notes – _a lot of them_ – all on the topic of Nikifofov Manor; important details about every room in The Castle, composed and recorded for the specific occasion of Christophe’s orientation. All written by hand, remembered, revised, and rehearsed, until Masumi could recite them in his sleep.

With a sardonic scoff, he allowed the pages to slide from his grip; spilling into the white wicker trash bin he kept beside his desk.

What a fucking waste.

At least no one could accuse him of not trying his level best.

And if Christophe found himself lost, bumbling around like a buffoon once the real work began; well, Masumi supposed that that would just be the Maître D's own fault.

Swallowing his bitterness, Masumi finished undressing, donned his nightshirt, and crawled into bed.

But even in the sweet solitude of his snug and sheltered chamber, he found it impossible to relax.

It ate at him, the way Christophe had so easily acclimated; charming everyone he'd met, speaking to new acquaintances as if they were grand old friends, strolling through the extravagant halls with an unshakable sense of superiority – as though The Castle were his own personal museum, and all those within, mere exhibits for his amusement.

Masumi supposed that, in view of The Maître D's natural charisma, his own efforts to make the man feel welcome mattered not in the slightest.

And with that cheerful bit of cynicism rattling around in his brain, the exhausted Butler tried to settle into sleep.

He soon discovered his efforts were in vain.

‘ _THWUMP_ ’.

Footsteps.

‘ _THWUMP_ , _THWUMP_ , _THWUMP_ ’.

Laughter.

‘ _THWUMP_ , _THWUMP_ , _CRASH_ ’!

“Shhh!”

More laughter.

Masumi rubbed at his eyes; Mercy, _what now_?

He reluctantly rose from bed, tied back his hair, donned his slippers and dressing gown, and went forth to investigate.

An ineffectual crank on the doorknob reminded the semi-conscious Butler that he'd locked himself in. With a soft curse, he clumsily fished through the breast-pocket of his coat until he found the key.

After a moment of impotent fumbling, the lock yielded and Masumi angrily heaved open the door; tucking the key back into his coat before scanning the corridors for trouble.

Straight ahead, only darkness; but to the left . . .

A small, nearly indistinguishable flicker of light bled from around the corner, chased by salacious snickers and mischievous whispers.

It was coming from The Staff Hall.

The Butler grudgingly quit his chamber with heavy, shuffling steps.

Another late night card game, no doubt – probably Francois up to his old tricks again.

He rounded the corner and drifted down the shadowed passage until he reached the western entrance to the Staff Hall.

Masumi's stomach lurched as he crossed the threshold.

It was not Francois.

It was Christophe Giacometti.

And he was not alone.

It appeared that, very much like The Pied Piper with his mice, Nikiforov Manor's new Maître D’ had summoned a whole army of revelers to his side; staff and gentry alike carousing in careless whispers below the castle kitchen.

At the westernmost table stood Nikiforov Manor's two fastest barmen – Paxton Edwards and Bradford Heyworth – distributing a mismatched array of goblets, tankards, and glasses, each filled to the brim with past-prime Chianti. Presently, they were serving up a round for Sir Celestino and a gaggle of off-duty guards; burly, boisterous meatheads like Andrei Kuznetsov, Sabina Petrovich and Ivan Vasiliev.

Just behind them, Francois Deschamps was offering his own goblet of wine to Claudia Donnadieu – the bottle-blonde drink attendant who had presently captured his affections – while Nanette Leblanc made kissy-faces behind her back. Also in line for drinks was Frieda Baumann, gossiping with Satsuki Muramoto and Catalina Dominguez; neither of whom could get a word in edgewise.

Further down the line, Masumi spied a few of the more ' _avant-garde_ ' gentry – Count Raoul De Lionne and Baron Guillaume Mouillé – lurking about like tourists; no doubt lured to the festivities by the novelty of ‘ _a low-brow evening with the common folk_ ’. 

Meanwhile, down at the far east end of the tables, Lord Georgi was whispering sweet nothings in a pretty young seamstress' ear; Masumi vaguely recalled that her name was ‘Anya’.

A small smattering of chefs and servers loitered by the sideboard, waiting to swoop in and claim a bottle of Chianti for their own. Dmitry Sokolov – Nikiforov Manor’s up-and-coming Sous Chef – had a huge grin splashed across his handsome face; laughing at some quip made by the sommelier, Ketty Abelashvil. Yuuto Omiki laughed along too; though it was clear the Back Waiter was too young to understand the punch line. 

Over in the corner, Masumi's own First Footman – Sasha Orlovis – had started a dice tournament with Hisashi Mooroka, the castle Scribe. Hikaru Fijuwara was with them, crying out in dismay as his roll came up just short of seven.

And there, smack dab in the middle of it all, was Christophe Giacometti.

He sat upon the surface of the center table, resting his feet on the bench and lording over them like the King of Discord himself. Presently, he appeared to be regaling his fellows with a decidedly raunchy tale.

Minako sat beside him, one arm intertwined with The Maître D’s as she laughed at his latest quip; full glass of Chianti sloshing onto her hand. Amidst Master Giacometti's gaggle of groupies, Masumi spotted Lady Mila and Lady Sara, book-ending Christophe’s feet on the bench; while Cao Bin – Crown Prince Viktor's Personal Valet – eyed the new Maître D' with less-than-subtle interest.

The Viscount de la Iglesia was there too, with Count Ji and Master Kenjirou; their innocent eyes all wide as dinner plates, as they hung on The Maître D’s every word. Lord Seung-gil attended them with crossed arms; very obviously put-out, and most likely dragged to the revelry against his will.

Masumi's stomach lurched as he glimpsed Count Altin through the crowd.

Merciful stars; if Lord Otabek was present, then that must mean . . .

The Butler desperately scanned the masses, eyes alighting on his target almost at once; Yuri Plisetsky – Nikiforov Manor's thirteen-year-old kitchen boy.

And right there in his hand was a teacup of Chianti.

Masumi growled low in his throat and prepared to dive into the throng; ignoring Sasha's sudden yelp.

“Oh! Master Keller! Didn't see you there! We were just . . . uh –”

The room fell silent as, one-by-one, the revelers took note of The Head Butler’s presence.

Christophe just kept talking.

“. . . So then I said, ‘ _boxer_? _I barely know her_ ’!”

The Maître D’ erupted in a fit of laughter, which slowly petered out as he realized he was laughing alone.

“. . . What? What's wrong? What did I –? Oh!” he gasped, finally spying The Butler, “Bon soiree, mon cher! Come to join the celebration?”

Masumi only scowled in response.

It seemed that Master Giacometti was already quite far into his cups, judging by the sway in his posture and the slur in his speech.

But his smile – _oh_ , _his smile_ – was so big and so bright and so impossibly wide; earnest and endearing, as if Masumi had brought the very sun.

Staunchly ignoring another burst of butterflies, The Head Butler spoke.

“I don't suppose anyone would care to explain all this?”

Christophe smirked, looking to the others with cheerful befuddlement; as though he assumed Masumi to be joking.

When no one else answered, The Maitre D' turned back. “What's to explain, darling?” Christophe laughed, still perplexed by the somber shroud which had settled over The Hall, “It's a party!”

Masumi only continued to glare; not trusting himself to speak.

 _Mercy_ ; how the man managed to be so impossibly adorable, whilst simultaneously fraying every last one of his nerves, Masumi swore he would never know.

“Come, chéri! Have a drink!” Christophe invited, swiveling to his right, “Pax!” he hollered, “Pax, my good man! A drink for The Butler!”

Paxton didn't move a muscle; his freckled visage now flushed with dread, ginger curls quivering, green eyes wide and uncertain.

“I'm _quite_ alright, _thank you_ ,” Masumi hissed; sharp and slow and formal, “I only came to investigate the _rather worrisome_ series of _late_ - _night thumping_ ”.

About a third of those assembled had the decency to look chastised; the rest merely scoffed.

Thankfully, Minako chose that moment to interject.

“Sorry Masumiii,” she pouted, quite inebriated herself, “we didn't mean to bother you . . . we were just having a welcome party for Chris is all”.

Masumi swallowed hard, steeling his resolve in the face of such a saccharine apology.

“Yes, I can see that . . .” he replied, forcing himself to remain calm, “and far be it from me to ruin your fun; however, it's really quite late and some of us work in the morning. In fact,” he amended, looking out at the gathered staff, “nearly all of us work in the morning – and I don't believe Duke Feltsman counts ‘hangover’ as reasonable cause to miss a shift!”

With a collective groan, the chastised staff reluctantly began to abandon their drinks.

“Come on Masumi, have a heart!” Minako begged, “Please! It's just one night . . .”

“And we've already opened the wine!” Christophe added; as though that were a legitimately compelling argument.

Masumi let out a sigh, “And what am I supposed to do when Duke Feltsman comes to me tomorrow and demands to know why _half the staff_ are sick with drink?” he queried, “What do I say when someone notices how our brand new Maître D’ _reeks of Chianti_ his very first day on duty?”

Christophe frowned, “I do own a mouth-rinse –”

In response, Masumi doubled-down with a growl, “And what _exactly_ did you intend to do about the _wildly irresponsible_ number of _children_ present?” he rebuked; jaw clenched to keep his voice under control, “Do you have _any idea_ what would happen if Master Plisetsky were to find out that you let his _only grandchild_ drink _half a teacup of wine_ – or if Countess Ji were to learn what scandalous tales her son's been privy to? You're _lucky_ it was only I who discovered you; if Duke Feltsman, or – mercy forbid – Crown Prince Nikiforov were to catch wind of this unauthorized soiree, they would –”

“Masumi, you worry too much!” Mila groaned, her voice heavy with drink, “We all know Minako's got Prince Viktor wrapped around her little finger –”

“Oh, I do not!” Minako giggled.

“Do so, do so!” Sara chirped with a tipsy little smile; resting her head on Minako's knee.

“Now, now, My Ladies; you heard the man,” Cao Bin jeered, “better pack it in before Master Keller writes us up for indecent behavior”.

Masumi felt a snarl claw its way up his throat as he turned to face the Valet.

“Well, _forgive me_ , Master Bin,” he replied, frosty as a winter’s eve, “for prioritizing the well-being of my charges above your _lewd entertainments_ ”.

Masumi stared The Valet down, daring him to object.

 _Mercy_ , he hated that man.

Cao Bin's retort was cut off by a soft, sleepy slur.

“Aww . . . that's actually . . . kind of sweet”.

Masumi turned, hardly believing it was Christophe Giacometti who'd spoken.

“You know,” The Maître D’ teased, “in a humorless kind of way . . .”

“Mmm hmm,” Minako agreed, pillowing her head on Christophe’s arm, “That’s Masumi for you . . . our sweet, humorless mother hen”.

The Butler sighed; well, so much for that.

“So . . .” Mila hedged, “so, does that mean we all have to go now?”

“It would appear so, My Lady," Baron Mouillé drawled; his bacon-fat lips pulling into a grimace, “The staff must, at any rate; however, I see no reason for the rest of us to depart. Unless, of course, it was our good Butler’s intention to _command above his station_?”

Shame yanked hard like a noose around Masumi's throat.

A formal apology was perched on his lips, ready to take flight, when –

“Oh, get over yourself, Mouillé,” Minako snapped, “You know perfectly well he didn't mean any such thing. The poor guy’s only doing his job – you don't have to be such an ass about it”.

The Butler swallowed hard, clinging to his composure. While Minako certainly could be a handful some days, moments like this served to remind him why she was so dear a friend in the first place.

The flummoxed Baron grappled for a retort, but Minako pressed on, “Besides, this is supposed to be Chris’ welcome party,” she insisted, “there's no point in staying if he and the other staff can't be here”.

“The Lady makes a very good point,” Christophe smugly agreed; Minako rewarded him with a triumphant smirk.

“Yea . . .” Sara surrendered, “yea, I suppose she's right”.

Count Raoul nodded, “hardly seems sporting,” he reasoned.

“So . . . the party’s really over, then?” Mila pouted.

Masumi frowned, “I'm afraid so, moy Gospođa,” he apologized; ignoring the little ribbons of guilt coiling around his gut as he looked into her forsaken blue eyes, “I would advise your ladyship to return to bed now, before your Illustrious Mother finds you missing and calls for her smelling salts.”

“Come on Masumi, can't we have just a little while longer?” Sara begged, “ _Please_? Mickey _never_ lets me attend events without an escort; but he's out on assignment right now. This may be my only chance to socialize without him breathing down my neck!”

“I'm sorry, Contessa,” Masumi replied, “Truly, I am; but even if the night were to continue, you and I _both_ know your brother would use me for target practice if he so much as suspected that I had allowed you to forgo a chaperone”.

Sara crossed her arms with a huff, “Mickey's not the boss of me,” she muttered.

“He's _not_ ,” Masumi agreed, “but that doesn't make his sword any less sharp, and I, for one, would rather not risk my neck”.

The Countess only glared, as Masumi's joke fell flat.

“I'll be her chaperone!” Celestino interjected; hollering from the west side of the room.

His suggestion was met by a round of wolf whistles and a smattering of laughter.

“I'm pretty sure Mickey would prefer she remain _unattended_ , if _you’re_ the alternative, Ciao Ciao!” Minako taunted.

“How about Masumi, then?” Christophe suggested, with a nod to The Butler. His smirk was two parts drunk, one part smug, “I bet he would make a _great_ chaperone . . .”

The Butler went white as a ghost.

“ _Oh no_ ,” he objected, “No. No, no, no, no, no – no _party_ , no _chaperoning_ , no –”

“Yea!” Mila cried, completely ignoring him, “Masumi is _harmless_! Mickey would trust him with Sara’s _life_ – let alone her _reputation_!”

“I don't need a chaperone!” Sara fumed, “I’m _perfectly capable_ of –”

“Oh, _I get it_!” Minako gasped. She lurched forward, rapidly patting Sara on the shoulder, “No, no, sweetie,” she cooed, “Masumi should _definitely_ be your chaperone . . .”

The Butler closed his eyes; pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

He had a very bad feeling about –

“In fact,” Minako decreed, “he should be _everybody's_ chaperone!”

And there it was.

It took a moment for the rest to catch on, but soon The Hall flooded with agreement.

“A splendid notion!” Christophe crowed, as if the whole thing had not been his idea to begin with, “who better to supervise this quaint little shindig of ours?”

“I, for one, think it’s a _marvelous_ idea,” Sara vindictively agreed.

“Me too!” Mila chirped.

“Oui, oui!” Baron Mouillé cheered.

Masumi took a deep breath, before looking back up; very purposefully avoiding the Maître D’s hazel eyes and instead looking to the gentry, “My Lord – My Ladies – you have my sincerest gratitude for the vote of confidence. However, I really must protest –”

“But why ever so, my good man?” Count Raoul wheedled, “at the risk of sounding bourgeois, are you not the one in charge down here? Surely your permission – and presence – hold enough merit to prolong the evening and spare your people any professional repercussions?”

“Exactly!” Minako cried, “I mean, it wouldn't be an ‘ _unauthorized soiree_ ’ if _you_ were here, would it, Masumi?”

Little spiders of dread crept up The Butler's spine; he desperately tried to object, but his voice refused to find him.

“I mean, they're not wrong,” Sara 'innocently' supplied, “Masumi is _the boss_ . . .”

“Second only to Yakov!” Minako confirmed.

“Teh-T-T-Technically n-not true,” Masumi refuted; concentrating every last ounce of willpower he possessed on not burning up from the inside out.

“Eh, technically _true enough_ ,” Minako dismissed.

“Works for me!” Mila agreed, taking another deep pull of Chianti.

“And me,” Sara taunted, mirroring Mila.

“Well, the people have spoken, mon cher,” Christophe crowed, “and it seems your _adoring public_ simply _insist_ that you stay! Can't disappoint them, now can we?”

And just like that, The Butler's voice deserted him once again.

“Yea! Come on, Masumi!” Minako entreated, patting the empty spot on the table beside her, “Sit! Stay! Have a drink! I mean, don't you deserve to have some fun too; after how hard you've been working?”

Her argument was met by enthusiastic murmurs of agreement.

Masumi could hardly believe his ears.

Staying up all night to supervise a hall full of rowdy drunks was _the absolute least fun thing he could possibly imagine_. Why couldn't his colleagues stop being so _mercy-forsaken difficult_ and just let him go back to sleep?

“You know . . . she's right, chéri,” Christophe purred, fixing The Butler with a seductive grin, “Come, you'll have a wonderful time . . . I _personally_ guarantee it”.

The cogs and gears in Masumi's conflicted brain ground to a screeching halt.

Scratch that; staying up all night to supervise a hall full of rowdy drunks _while Christophe Giacometti carelessly wreaked havoc on his poor_ , _introverted little heart_ was _the absolute least fun thing he could possibly imagine_.

“I –” He objected, “I . . .”

“ _Please_ , Masumi?” Minako beseeched; pouting up at The Butler and fluttering her lashes, “Please?”

“ _Please_?” The Maître D’ echoed; following suit and subsequently unleashing the _sweetest_ , _softest_ , _most irresistible_ puppy-dog eyes Masumi had ever seen in his life.

And with that, The Butler broke.

“Ground rules,” he snapped, crossing his arms with a scowl, “No shouting, no stomping, no singing. No running, no roughhousing – nothing that could damage the furniture or bash anyone's brains out. No pipe smoke, no gambling – yes, Master Orlovis, you may still dice; just don't let me catch you making any wagers. Masters Heyworth and Edwards, do us all a good turn and fetch some water, please; Mademoiselles Leblanc and Donnadieu – some glasses, if you'd be so kind. I expect you all to use your best judgement with the Chianti – I won't have anyone risking their health, and moreover, won't have anyone emptying their stomach all over the nice, clean floor. Additionally, as it is already past midnight, the celebration will end at _precisely three o'clock_ , and not a minute later. On this point there will be _zero_ negotiation, so you would all do well to perish any illusion of persuading me to the contrary _right this very instant_ ”.

An excitable murmur bubbled through the revelers; one by one, the staff cautiously took up their drinks.

“Having said that,” Masumi continued, “for those of you fifteen years of age and younger, the party ends _now_ ”.

“What? Why?”

“No way!”

“That's so unfair!”

“This is BULLSH-!”

Despite the prepubescent cries of Guang Hong, Minami, Yuuto and Yuri, Masumi would not be swayed, “This is no fit place for children,” he decreed, “You've all been exposed to more than enough indecency already –”

“But Mila and Otabek get to stay!” Minami objected.

“In case it escaped your notice, Master Kenji, Marchioness Babicheva and Count Altin are both _sixteen_ –”

“But what's one year?” Minami wailed, “ _Please_ , Master Keller?”

Masumi took another deep breath, “The Marchioness and Count are both of marriageable age under the law, and are therefore considered adults; as such, they are allowed to imbibe wine and spirits without legal ramifications,” he refuted, “Now, if it were up to me, anyone _eighteen_ or younger would be marched up to bed right this very instant. However . . . I for one know when to _pick my battles_ , Master Kenji”.

Minami let out a defeated sigh; he looked to Guang Hong, who merely shrugged in response.

“Well . . . I – I guess I'm kind of tired, actually,” Leo offered, sheepishly scratching the back of his head, “Maybe I'll . . . I'll also head up to bed, as well?”

It was obvious The Viscount wasn’t tired in the slightest; but he and The Count were practically joined at the hip and Masumi wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Since neither of you are staying, does that mean _I_ am finally allowed to leave as well?” Seung-gil drawled.

“Yea,” said Leo.

“Fine,” said Guang Hong.

“No, stay!” said Sara.

The Marquis rolled his eyes, “Then _let's go_ , already”.

Without another word, he swept past Masumi; mouthing an exasperated “ _thank you_ ” as he went. The other musicians followed, rolling after him like the tide, with Minami right on his heels. After some reluctant prompting from Dmitry, Yuuto departed as well.

The Hall slowly began to fill with noise; the soft rumbling of a thousand conversations suffusing the air as the victorious party-goers resumed their drinking, dicing, and debauchery. 

With a satisfied nod, Masumi surveyed the room; suddenly spying a very put-out Yuri Plisetsky, who still hadn't moved an inch.

“You too, Yuri,” Masumi commanded, “Bed. Now.”

“No way!” The thirteen-year-old snapped, digging in his heels, “If _Beka_ stays, _I_ stay!”

“ _Yuri Plisetsky_ . . .” Masumi warned, now entirely out of fucks to give, “if you don't go to bed _this instant_ , I'm going to tell your grandfather what _really_ happened to his favorite ladle; you know, the one which I found covered in dirt, behind your –”

“FINE!” The Kitchen Boy bellowed; thrusting his half-empty teacup into Masumi’s unsuspecting hands, “Come on, Beka!”

Without another word, Yuri stormed out of the hall, looking for all the world like an angry little kitten; Otabek followed with an amicable shrug and half-hearted salute to his fellows.

Masumi sighed, lamenting the sticky mess of Chianti now dripping down his hands.

Well, at least that was dealt with . . .

The Butler absently shook one hand dry, wondering if he might seize the moment to run back to his chamber and change. Just because he’d been strong-armed into supervising this ill-conceived little shindig didn’t mean he was about he was to do so in his night shirt and dressing gown after all; especially as the latter was now soaked through with burgundy putrescence. 

The clamour grew ever louder, as a sudden weight flopped against his side; Masumi just barely managed to save the cup of Chianti as Minako wrapped him up in a great, big, sloppy bear-hug.

“Oh, _thank you Masumi_!” She cooed, “ _thank you_ , _thank you_ , _thank you_ , _thank you_!”

The Butler’s steely frown melted into a fond pout; one steady hand still holding the drippy teacup aloft.

Ugh, this was _so unfair_. He couldn't say ‘no’ to Minako at the best of times; now that she had Christophe Giacometti and his big, stupid calf-eyes for reinforcement, the poor Butler didn't stand a chance.

At length, the tipsy Lady released him.

“You're the _best_ , Masumi! I owe you _big time_!” she declared, plucking the teacup right out of his hand, “Wait here – I'll go get you a drink! Be right back!”

And just like that, she was gone.

The Butler could only gape after her, as the gleeful Ex-Prima bounced off through the crowd; certain that she would be the death of him.

Marshalling his thoughts once more, Masumi surreptitiously scanned The Staff Hall. Everything seemed to be under control, for the moment at least; Minako would be waiting on that drink quite a while, judging by the queue . . . perhaps now would be a good opportunity to –

Then, The Butler’s gaze landed on Christophe Giacometti.

The Maitre D' looked very pleased with himself indeed; grinning like the cat that got the canary as he raised his glass in a silent toast to Masumi. Then he brought the goblet down for a slow, triumphant sip; punctuating the move with an indulgent lick of those perfect pink lips – and never once breaking eye contact.

Masumi cursed himself again.

The butterflies were back; but this time, the fluttering of their wings curdled his stomach, as Christophe Giacometti both thrilled and infuriated him with a single gesture.

The Butler turned and furiously quit The Staff Hall.

 

 *****

 

_13 Years, 9 Months & 3 Weeks Previous . . . _

 

‘ _Shhhk-a-shhhk-a-shhhk-a-shhhk-a_ ’.

Masumi glared at the uncooperative scrub brush; pressing ever harder as he scoured the mottled tiles beneath his aching knees.

‘ _Shhhk-a-shhhk-a-shhhk-a-shhhk-a_ ’.

 _Ugh_! _Who_ had spilled _what_ on these tiles? And _when_? And _what kind of idiot_ built a _mess hall_ with a _porous sandstone floor_ in the first place? Honestly, any mason worth his salt would have _known_ to use _granite_!

The thirteen-year-old Hall Boy venomously dunked the filthy bristles back into the bucket; sloshing soapy water over its wooden lip as he set back to work.

‘ _Shhhk-a-shhhk-a-shhhk-a-shhhk-a_ ’.

 _Why – Won't – You – Come – Clean_?

“Careful, Master Keller . . . at this rate you'll scrub the tile right through!”

Masumi's head snapped up like a whip; startled by the sudden sound of Josef's voice.

The kindly old Butler's lips quirked up at the corners; a teasing twinkle sparkled in his eye.

“Y-yeh-yes M-mmo-mo-m-monsieur,” Masumi automatically replied, “S-sorry, M-monsieur”.

Josef smiled, though something rueful shadowed his gentle eyes.

“Well . . . I'll leave you to it then,” he apologized; excusing himself with a friendly nod to the dour young Hall Boy.

Masumi bit his lip in frustration, dunked the brush once more, and set back to work.

 

 *****

 

_MONTH 1, DAY 14_

( _APPROXIMATELY 7 MINUTES LATER. THOUGH IT SHOULD BE NOTED THAT THE HOUR IS NOW WELL PAST MIDNIGHT; MEANING THE FOLLOWING EVENTS TECHNICALLY OCCUR ON THE 15 th DAY OF THE 1st MONTH, SHOULD ONE BE SO INCLINED TO KEEP A RECORD OF SUCH THINGS_)

 

Scarcely four-hundred-and-twenty seconds later, Masumi was clean and pressed and back in The Staff Hall; now sporting rather more appropriate attire. He hadn’t deemed it necessary to don his livery – and what’s more, didn’t want to risk getting it soiled – so now wore one of his more casual, day-off outfits; plain hose, black breeches and white shirt, paired with a soft mahogany-coloured waistcoat. Nothing utterly remarkable, of course, but nothing too shabby either.

His hair, as always, was tied back in its black velvet ribbon.

The steady buzz of a thousand conversations thickened the air all around him; gentry and staff alike all laughing and talking and flirting in carefully muted tones as they drank the night away.

The Butler’s fingertips dug hard into his own crossed arms as he supervised the festivities; willing himself into wakefulness. He’d strategically placed himself on the far east side of The Hall – mere steps from the end of the long table – in order to provide himself with the best vantage point.

Unsurprisingly, the bulk of the celebration continued to revolve around the whims of Nikiforov Manor's enchanting new Maître D’.

Presently, Christophe lounged atop the centre table, regaling his audience with yet another lurid tale from his days as a dancer; a regular in the chorus at The City Ballet, no less.

Masumi had to admit, that certainly did explain a lot – Master Giacometti's undeserved ego, for one – though, The Butler couldn’t help but wonder why Christophe might choose to leave behind his apparently ‘glamorous’ life in the first place; and if, perhaps, there might be some way to simply _send the fucker back_ – like a mis-delivered letter, or a dish with too much salt.

It wasn’t that Masumi _hated_ the man, per se; just that, much like false correspondence or an overly salted dinner, Christophe Giacometti had turned out to be a very great disappointment.

Honestly, how could they entrust a role as important as Maître D’ to a man like _Christophe Giacometti_ ; a careless miscreant who abandoned his orientation and hosted wild parties less than twenty-four hours into his tenure, and didn’t even have the good sense to ensure that all those in attendance were of age?

Of course, being so charming and popular, Christophe would likely see no consequences for his actions whatsoever; while Masumi – who practically bent over backwards to accommodate others – was now doomed to a lifetime of damage control as Christophe Giacometti usurped his home, his friends, and everything he’d ever worked for in the span of a single evening.

A wave of laughter erupted from the exclusive clique at the table, as Christophe delivered yet another zinger.

Masumi’s lip curled in a pout.

At least Minako seemed happy.

Presently, the Ex-Prima was comfy cozy as could be; curled up on the table beside her charming beau –

Almost-beau?

Beau-to-be?

Now that Masumi considered it, Minako hadn’t been all that clear on the extent of their involvement . . .

Or perhaps she had, and Masumi simply hadn't been paying attention; too overwhelmed by the demands of double-duty to commit the minutiae of her gossip to memory.

Regardless, Christophe was now _here_ and Minako was now _there_ , happily tucked into The Maître D’s side and purring away like a contented cat; leaving Masumi to contend with the fact that he was now well and truly fucked for the rest of his natural life.

The Butler sighed, supposing he should at least try to be happy for Minako, despite his own personal disdain for Master Giacometti and his big, stupid calf-eyes. For, though the new Maître D’ was neither a ponderous man nor a model employee, he at least seemed to make her smile.

And that’s all that really mattered, wasn’t it?

A cheer went up as Christophe stood to fetch another round; Cao Bin and Count Raoul flocked him to the far end of the table to lend a hand, while the others kept laughing away.

Truthfully, Masumi had considered joining Minako and her companions upon his return, but quickly decided against it; knowing the company would be far too distracting, the Chianti far too welcoming, and Christophe far too . . . well, just far too much of everything.

Instead, he’d accepted the sloppy teacup of sour wine which Minako had bequeathed him, then taken up his lonely watch on the far side of the room.

And there, The Butler remained; lips unsmiling, Chianti untouched.

Reluctantly, Masumi looked to the rest of The Hall.

So far so good; no fights, no flings, no follies . . .

A sudden outcry drew Masumi’s attention to Sasha and the others dicing in the corner; apparently, someone was a winner.

Masumi patiently glared until he caught The Footman’s eye; pinning him in place with silent reproach. In response, Sasha at least had the decency to feign contrition; mouthing a quick apology to The Butler, before reminding his fellows to keep the volume down.

Masumi relaxed, ever-so-slightly; if that was going to be the worst of it, perhaps the night wouldn’t be so terrible after all–

“Having fun, chéri?”

Masumi nearly jumped right out of his skin.

Somehow, Christophe had materialized right beside him.

The Maitre D' leaned sideways against the wall; proud and poised and polished, with a seductive smile plastered across those perfect lips. He was close enough to steal a kiss – should the mood strike him – but far enough away that Masumi would be forced to lean closer to hear him.

The Butler regarded him with sleepy, bloodshot eyes.

“Ja. Loads,” he deadpanned.

Christophe smirked; far too well versed in the ways of sarcasm to believe Masumi’s half-hearted half-truth for even a moment.

“Oh yes, I can tell,” The Maître D’ returned, equally flippant, “Now, do you think, perhaps, that might have something to do with the fact that you’ve chosen to drink _all the way over here by your lonesome_?”

“I’m not drinking,” Masumi countered, nodding to the sticky, abandoned teacup.

Christophe raised both hands in mock surrender; one still holding a mostly-empty goblet of wine. “Touché,” he returned, “In that case, my sweet . . . might I ask _why_ you’re ‘not drinking’ _all the way over here by your lonesome_?”

Masumi quirked a brow, “Just one of the perks of being a ‘mother hen’, I suppose,” he drawled.

Out of the corner of his eye, The Butler spied a flash of pink; he followed it – distracted – as Christophe rambled on.

“Is that so?” The Maître D’ replied, “Forgive me darling, but I never was all that knowledgeable about hens . . . I’m really much better with _cockerel_ , myself”.

Masumi’s brow furrowed; what was Master Giacometti on about now? Hens and –? _Ugh_ ; another of his terrible jokes, no doubt, as it seemed highly unlikely the man had any real-world experience with barn fowl – rooster or otherwise.

In any case, Masumi was far too preoccupied to form a retort, as the flash of pink he’d seen turned out to be Marchioness Mila Babicheva, twirling about as she stood to pour herself yet another drink.

“Excuse me a moment,” Masumi murmured, more to himself than Christophe. He carefully side-stepped The Maître D’, maneuvering into position at the end of the table, where he could more easily get Lady Mila’s attention.

“Marchioness? Marchioness Babicheva!” Masumi called above the din, “Lady Mila, might I beg a word?”

Mila looked up in a daze, taking a moment too long to find Masumi’s eyes. Eventually, she focused in on his face and nodded; her own eyes half-lidded and sleepy.

“Moy Gospođa, might I suggest a glass of _water_ this time?” Masumi entreated, gesturing to the pitchers which Paxton and Bradford had so kindly set aside.

Mila rolled her eyes, “Da, da, Mat' . . .” She sing-songed back, devolving into a tipsy fit of giggles as she reached for a new cup.

Despite the jab, she did as Masumi bid and poured herself some water. The Butler’s short-lived relief was thoroughly dashed, however, when she took both the water _and_ the wine back to her seat. Not the most ideal compromise, of course, but Masumi supposed he’d take what he could get.

With a trip and a stumble and another fit of giggles, Mila plopped herself back down on the bench and started playing with Sara’s hair; much to the other lady’s delight.

Masumi looked to the mantle clock; heart sinking when he realized how mercilessly young the night still was. He leaned forward, bowing his head and bracing himself on the large wooden table; bare palms pressed flat to the smooth, sturdy surface as he collected his composure once more.

A low chuckle drew The Butler’s attention back to Christophe Giacometti, who was somehow still at his hip.

“Teenagers – they have minds of their own, n'est-ce pas?” The Maître D’ quipped.

It took a moment for Masumi’s brain to catch up to the words; and longer still for his tongue to catch up to his brain.

“I . . . I suppose,” he said, stupidly. For a moment, he did nothing but blink at the gorgeous Maître D’, unable to discern why the man was still hanging about.

Finally, he asked.

“Why are –? What do you –?” Masumi stopped, taking a deep breath before continuing; he might not be a fan of the new Maître D’, but that was no reason to be rude.

“Apologies. Was there something you needed, Master Giacometti?” he inquired; standing up straight and smoothing his waistcoat back into place.

Christophe pouted back at him, “Must I _need_ something in order to seek your attention?" he wheedled, "Perhaps I simply enjoy your shining company”.

Masumi fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Well, you’d be the first,” he quipped.

“Oh, come now, darling – surely that’s not true?"

To Masumi’s great surprise, The Maître D’ actually sounded _sympathetic_.

The Butler took a deep breath.

“You know how these things are, I'm certain,” he dismissed; tone measured and formal as always, “nobody wants to drink with their boss”.

With a small, unassuming shrug, The Maître D’ slid closer, “Oh, surely not ‘ _nobody_ ’?” he postulated, “I mean, I can’t speak for _everyone_ of course, but _personally_ , I tend not to be dissuaded by such things . . .”

Masumi nearly groaned; why was he not surprised?

“Yes. Well. I’m not _your_ boss, now am I?”

“Are you not?”

“What possibly gave you that idea?”

“Were the others mistaken, then? Before? About you being second in command?”

Masumi sighed; apparently Master Giacometti really _hadn’t_ listened to a word of orientation.

“I . . . I suppose that _technically_ wouldn’t be _completely_ incorrect,” The Butler grudgingly conceded.

“Well then, you understand my confusion, chéri”.

And now, Christophe was grinning that stupid shit-eating grin of his again; the one that made Masumi want to smack him and bend him over the table all at once.

The Butler took yet another deep breath.

“ _No_ , Master Giacometti, I am not _your_ boss,” he replied, politely as he was able, “I am in charge of ‘Housekeeping’, whereas you are in charge of ‘Service’. We both answer directly to Duke Feltsman – whom, you will recall, is our Major-Domo”.

“I see . . .” Christophe hummed; eyes alight with mischief, “how _marvelous_ ”.

“Marvelous?”

“Of course!” The Maître D’ purred, sliding ever closer, “All the more reason for you to come drink with me – or, come ‘not drink’ with me. Whichever you prefer; I’m really quite flexible . . .”

Every drop of blood in Masumi’s brain rushed south as Christophe reached forth, tracing a single, seductive finger down the centre line of his waistcoat-clad chest.

The butterflies were back again; fluttering so fast, Masumi swore he was floating.

The very next instant, The Butler came to his senses.

“Dear me, where has our beloved Lady Okukawa gotten to?” Masumi yelped, flinching away as though burned by The Maitre D's very touch, “Why, you two are nigh-inseparable; and such a handsome couple you make, too!”

The Butler plastered on a smile as fake as a ceruse complexion.

Christophe’s slender brow furrowed in perplexity.

“I – a what? We’re not a–”

‘ _WOOSH-THUMP_ , _CRAAASH_ ’!

Both Christophe and Masumi jumped.

At the west end of the tables, Ivan and Sabina were engaged in a bout of arm wrestling which, apparently, had gotten quite out of hand. The good news was that they both seemed to be unharmed; the bad news was that, in the course of their sport, they’d sent half a dozen crystalline water carafes crashing to the mottled tile below.

Masumi took yet a third deep breath as pin-footed spiders of self-loathing spun webs in his spleen.

 _Good_ ; finally something to rid him of those _horrid_ butterflies.

He looked from Master Giacometti, to the mess of shattered glass, and back again.

“Excuse me,” he said, “I’ll have to see to that”.

Without another word, Masumi was off; and frankly, not a moment too soon.

He swept across The Hall – eyes steely and strides determined – sternum still scorching from the memory of the trail Christophe had traced there. Upon reaching the scene of the incident, Masumi quickly cleared the area; channeling humiliation into fury as he shooed the ruffians away.

Once the perpetrators had disseminated, Masumi quickly set to work, sweeping up the broken glass and sopping up the veritable lake of spilled water; trembling from bow to stern the entire time.

He was on his knees now – breeches soaked, sleeves rolled up to the elbow – wringing wasted water from a makeshift rag; all the while imagining it to be Christophe Giacometti’s neck.

 _What_ – _what in the seven hells had just happened_?

 _Flirting_ – Christophe had _definitely_ been _flirting_ – this time, at least.

But – but, it was a _mistake_ – it _had to be_.

Masumi’s rag absently traced the mottled tiles; slowly sucking moisture out of sandstone as he contemplated his turmoil. 

A – a misunderstanding. Yes. That was it. Or – or a joke. Or a dare. Or a consequence of the Chianti.

An errant flick of the wrist splattered a few droplets of wasted water onto his breeches.

Masumi had dismissed Christophe’s earlier flattery as a fluke – a bit of ego-stroking on The Maître D’s part, in a bid to ingratiate himself with his new colleague – but this . . . this was different.

Masumi frowned.

People like _Christophe Giacometti_ did _not_ flirt with people like _Masumi Keller_ –

The Butler squeezed hard; making another murky deposit in the wooden bucket by his side.

– _Not unless they wanted something_.

He twisted the terrycloth tighter.

And though the spiders in his spleen spun cautionary tales, the butterflies in his stomach continued to tempt him; whispering 'what ifs' so sweet they nearly persuaded him to disregard the danger.

Masumi slapped his rag back down with a grimace; reminding himself to focus on the task at hand.

Christophe, meanwhile, had returned to his little flock of followers, who still claimed a spot at the center table. Unsurprisingly, the winsome Maître D’ remained the centre of attention; still smiling, still laughing, still charming and perfect and beautiful and –.

Masumi groaned.

 _Mercy_ ; what was _wrong_ with him?

The rag made a slick, squishy sound, as The Butler wrung it out once more.

Minako was right; he really did need to find himself a bedfellow – before this silly infatuation with the new Maître D’ drove him completely to madness.

Honestly, it should have been enough that Christophe Giacometti was his _dearest friend's_ intended – but even were he _not_ the object of Minako's affections, the man _clearly_ wasn’t courtship material.

Masumi stretched out one stiff and aching arm, swiping at the furthest puddles as he fought to smother his desire; stuffing it deep, deep down into the recesses of his subconscious, where it would never again see the light of day.

He even resisted the urge to sneak another peek at the gorgeous Maître D’; for a moment or two, anyway.

From beneath his sweat-damp fringe, Masumi watched as Christophe slung an arm around Count Raoul, and started whispering in his ear. It must have been pleasing – whatever Christophe said – as The Count's face broke into a wide grin; wrapping an absent arm around The Maître D’s waist to hold him steady.

Masumi scowled, wringing out his rag once more.

Honestly; what did Minako even see in that _scoundrel_ , anyway?

She could do better; _much_ better.

A thunderous stomping of feet ripped The Butler from his ruminations, as Nanette and Claudia careened around the corner in a fit of giggles; the former playfully chasing after the latter.

They were headed straight for him.

“Not another step!” Masumi commanded, throwing his arms out to halt them.

Claudia suddenly slid to a stop; Nanette crashed into her from behind, sending both into another fit of giggles.

“Tread lightly, there may still be glass,” Masumi warned, “And what did I say about –?”

The Butler suddenly stopped short; blinking in confusion as he took stock of ladies before him.

“Mademoiselle Leblanc . . . _where in the world_ are your _shoes_?”

Both ladies hesitated, before bursting out in breathless laughter once more.

Clearly, the Chianti had taken hold of their senses; Masumi doubted he would get a coherent answer from either of them any time soon.

“Just . . . go 'round the other way,” He surrendered; punctuating the request with a dejected flick of his rag.

The ladies bit their lips and nodded, both trying to suppress their giggles as they turned.

“And no running this time!” Masumi added; calling out above the laughter as the two ladies scuttled off.

With a heavy sigh, The Butler turned back to the tiles.

He was nearly trampled twice more before the job was done: once by a vindictive Cao Bin, who ‘accidentally’ tripped; knocking over Masumi’s water pail and forcing him to start all over again – and once by a tipsy Lady Mila, who’d been pouring herself another cup of Chianti, despite Masumi’s repeated suggestions to the contrary.

At last, Masumi was done. Satisfied that the area was now clear and dry and safe enough traverse, The Butler rose, emptied his pail, and hung up his rag to dry.

He glanced at the mantle clock, hoping that time would be nearly up; but instead, the hour made him cringe. For a moment, The Butler could do no more than gape at the useless timepiece, wondering if, perhaps, some enterprising hoodlum had wound it backward in order to extend the evening. Unfortunately for Masumi, a quick consultation with Paxton and his heirloom pocket watch assured The Butler that the night was, indeed, just as unbearably young as he’d feared; and so, with a heavy heart, Masumi took up his position once more.

He surveyed the room as he trudged back to the east side of The Hall; eyes wandering, as always, back to Christophe and Minako, and the happy clique at the centre table.

This time, however, The Maître D’ had an arm around Cao Bin; The Valet’s own hand cupping the small of Christophe’s back.

Masumi scowled.

 _Perfect_ ; not only was Master Giacometti a _flirt_ , he was a flirt with _terrible taste_.

Well, at least Masumi could safely discount their earlier encounter, as the man's words were clearly worth less than a wooden nickel.

But . . . although Christophe was very much enjoying himself, he now seemed distinctly _preoccupied_ – eyes alert and focused – scanning the room almost as though he were _looking_ for something.

Whatever it was, Masumi was certain he _didn’t want to know_.

Minako, for her part, didn’t seem to notice any of this – Christophe's flirting, nor his preoccupation – as she was presently consumed by some conversation with Count Raoul; who was doubtless waxing poetic about flowers, or sunshine, or bunny rabbits or whatever air-headed topics spoiled noblemen contemplated in their spare time.

Masumi’s eyes rolled of their own volition.

In fact, The Butler was so completely preoccupied with his bitterness, he walked right into a fetid plume of odoriferous smoke.

Masumi furiously waved the stench away; hacking into his chilly, slightly-pruned hands.

He looked about for the offending pipe; immediately spying his target.

“ _Monsieur Deschamps_ ,” Masumi growled, making a beeline for the troublesome young footman, “ _what upon this merciful green earth is in your mouth_?”

“Pipe,” Francois answered flippantly, clicking the lacquered mahogany between his teeth, “looks distinguished, don't it?”

Masumi quirked a brow.

“Debatable. Regardless, I wonder if you have at all considered the impact your newfound affectation might have on _Mademoiselle Donnadieu_? I have it on good authority that _tasting of ash_ is a rather _unbecoming_ trait; and not at all conducive to wooing one’s intended”.

Truthfully, Masumi didn’t care about the courtship one way or the other; but Francois fancied himself something of a rebel, which meant that a simple, straight-forward request would do less than nothing to get The Butler’s point across.

Thankfully, the more targeted persuasion gave The Footman pause; his blue eyes narrowed, drunk mind slowly turning over the implications of this newfound revelation.

" _Get rid of it_ , Monsieur Deschamps" Masumi advised, " _Now_ ".

With a pensive nod, Francois removed the pipe; staring at it as though it had betrayed him.

After a deep, relaxing breath of smoke-free air, Masumi at last resumed his post.

 

*****

 

_MONTH 1, DAY 14 (OR 15, SHOULD IT PLEASE YOU)_

( _ROUGHLY 1 _ & ½ _  HOURS PAST MIDNIGHT_)

 

Time plowed ever onward; sluicing by, slow and sticky like molasses in summer.

Christophe told another tale. Mila poured another drink. Christophe flirted with Dmitry. Sasha held a second tournament. Christophe flirted with Bradford. Mila poured another drink. Christophe flirted with Dmitry again. Minako shared some gossip. Georgi flirted with Anya. Francois flirted with Claudia. Christophe flirted with Ivan.

It was about an hour and a half into Masumi’s reign now, and apart from the broken glass, things hadn’t gotten too terribly out of hand; a few of the more responsible staff had even gone to bed.

But the sands of time had not yet run out; and neither had the wine.

So, Masumi stood, and he watched, and he waited.

Some minutes later, over in a dimly lit corner of the hall, trouble seemed to be brewing between Lord Georgi and one of the infantrymen; Andrei Kuznetsov. Anya stood between them, looking utterly mortified as the two faced off in a bout of inebriated posturing.

Masumi frowned; it was probably nothing . . . but better safe than sorry. He wasn’t about to let a Marquis get his teeth knocked out, after all; imagine having to explain that one to Yakov.

The Butler scanned the room, searching for Sir Celestino. A moment later he let out a sharp whistle, spying his target dicing with Sasha over in the corner.

“Hey – Cavaliere Cialdini,” Masumi beckoned, “Your assistance, please?”

Slowly but surely, The Chevalier abandoned the game, stumbled to his feet and staggered over.

“Wha? What is it? What’s going on?” He asked; slurred and sleepy, but not too terribly put-out.

“Tell your guy to back down?” Masumi entreated, nodding towards the impotent showdown unfolding in the corner.

Celestino snorted; very clearly relived by the simplicity of his task, “no problem buddy,” he grinned, “consider it done. . .”

With a friendly clap on the back, Celestino slowly ambled away; heading for the squabble in the corner. To Masumi’s relief, The Chevalier easily deescalated the situation; pulling Andrei away under the pretense of pouring another round.

With a sigh, Masumi looked back to the mantle clock.

Mercy, wasn’t it nearly three yet?

To the Butler's dismay, it absolutely was not; so, he resigned himself to another endless hour-and-a-half of 'fun', and resumed his tedious supervision of the room.

“There you are, darling – I’ve been looking for you all night”.

Masumi’s stomach curdled; _ugh_ , what did _he_ want?

“Really? _All night_?” The Butler drawled, “It never occurred to you to simply glance skyward?”

Master Giacometti had returned. He leaned against the wall, just as before – all velvety smiles and wicked indulgence – the very picture of seduction.

But this time, Masumi refused to be swayed.

“No, it didn’t, actually,” The Maître D’ teased, “You see, we’re of such a perfect height, you and I, that I have only but to look straight ahead to meet that charming smile of yours”.

Masumi slowly turned to face The Maître D’; expression thoroughly embittered.

Christophe, however, was as happy as could be; still pleasantly toasted, but nowhere near as inebriated as the others – and no worse off than when Masumi had first arrived.

When The Butler refused to reply, Christophe tried again, “You had me worried darling,” he murmured, leaning in just a little bit closer, “I was beginning to think you’d left”.

“What, and miss all the fun?” Masumi scoffed, “perish the thought”.

“Can you really blame me for wondering, when you’ve spent the entire night standing over here all alone?” Christophe countered, “You haven't been hiding from me, have you?

“Don’t be absurd,” Masumi chided; stopping short to clear his throat, “I’ve merely been preoccupied; _cleaning up broken glass_ and _putting out pipe smoke_ and _keeping the peace_ ”.

Christophe quirked a brow; apparently still sober enough to pick up on passive aggressive undertones.

“Well, _forgive_ me dearest, but that doesn’t sound like a pleasant way to spend the evening _at all_ ,” he sighed; a very sarcastic lamentation, “if _only_ there were _some way_ to make such a _dire situation_ more bearable . . .”

Masumi nearly rolled his eyes, but caught himself just in time; refusing to give Christophe the satisfaction.

“I know!” The Maître D’ purred, cozying up to The Butler, “A glass of wine and some charming company, perhaps? Certainly that would salvage your night, would it not, my sweet?”

Masumi swallowed hard, forcing himself to stay strong.

“Imbibing alcohol hardly seems wise; considering my role as chaperone –”

“Well then, I think it’s about time you abandoned your post, don’t you?”

Seductive fingertips slowly slid to Masumi’s lapel; tracing the curve of his chest from clavicle to pectoral.

“ _Monsieur Giacometti_ ,” Masumi objected, slowly and purposefully disentangling himself from The Maître D’, “might I remind you that it was _your idea_ to have me supervise this impromptu get-together of yours in the first place?”

For a moment, Christophe was silent, regarding him very curiously; just as he had earlier that very afternoon, when trying to place The Butler’s accent.

A single second later, some grand revelation clicked into place, and The Maître D’ switched up his tactics. His lips curled into an innocent little moue as he slid close once again; this time dipping his chin and looking up at Masumi through his lashes.

His _long_ , _lovely_ , _luxuriant_ lashes.

“ _Darling_ . . .” Christophe pouted, “don't tell me you're actually _mad_ about that?”

Masumi crossed his arms and looked away; deciding his drenched breeches were answer enough.

But no sooner had Masumi escaped The Maître D’s hypnotic gaze, than Christophe was in front of him once more; clouding his mind and consuming his vision.

“Come now – don’t look so sad, my sweet. I didn’t _mean_ anything by it,” Christophe entreated, “how else was I supposed to get you to stay?”

Masumi looked right through him.

“Ichigo daifuku and a rope snare?”

“I – what?”

“Nothing. Never mind”.

Then, Christophe got an idea.

“Well in that case, why don’t I make it up to you, hm?” he offered, “We could steal a moment alone, _far away_ from all this _noise_ ; relax a while, put our feet up, have a drink . . . _anything you want_.”

Masumi jolted; suddenly seized by an unexpected fit of coughing.

Still, Christophe was undeterred; batting those inhumanly perfect lashes as he patiently waited for Masumi to catch his breath.

“ _So_ . . .” Christophe purred, “ _what do you say, chéri_?”

“Ah. Yes. Certainly,” Masumi sarcastically grit out, “shall I assume you have someone else in mind to chaperone during my absence, then?”

“Darling, it’s _fine_ ; we don't actually _need_ a chaperone –”

“Oh, but you do,” Masumi refuted, putting even more distance between himself and The Maître D’. “Just listen – do you hear that?”

Incredulity was writ plainly across Christophe’s face; all the same, he did as he was told, even going so far as to close his eyes in order to humor The Butler.

“Do you know what that sound is?”

The Maître D’ furrowed his brow and slowly shook his head.

“ _That_ , Master Giacometti, is the sound of Frieda Baumann teaching the entire kitchen staff a traditional Middle Hills drinking song; a song as loud as it is bawdy, and _discordant by design_. A song which will undoubtedly rouse _every single resident of this castle_ ; the majority of whom will be even _less pleased_ by the unseemly hour than _I_ ”.

Christophe’s eyes immediately popped open. He tried to object, but Masumi kept going; spurred on by righteous indignation.

“And look! There's young Master Plisetsky, who has apparently returned to the party – in direct defiance of both _my orders_ and _his own personal well-being_ – wearing what I can only assume to be his interpretation of a 'grown-up' disguise. And, oh – _surprise_ , _surprise_ – Master Heyworth is about to _set something on fire_. Now, if you will excuse me –”.

The Butler shouldered his way past a very flummoxed Christophe Giacometti, using every last ounce of his self-control to refrain from looking back.

His bitterness propelled him toward the wild Bradford Heyworth; yanking a pack of matches out of the careless barkeep’s hand moments before the man lit a round of flaming drinks. Ignoring Bradford’s cry of indignation, Masumi wove through the crowd, not sparing so as much as a word for the furious Kitchen Boy, whom he had to physically drag out by the lapel. Despite Yuri’s cussing and flailing, Masumi held firm, asserting that, should the young man dare return again, his grandfather would _also_ learn what had become of his favourite spatula; which had suspiciously gone missing around the same time as his favourite ladle.

Finally, Masumi gathered his courage and went to face Frieda Baumann; who retaliated with nothing more than a loud, “ _Ach – Leck mich am Arsch, Keller_!” – which, for Frieda, was a surprisingly civil response.

At last, Masumi was forced to look back to his post; dreading that Master Giacometti might still be there waiting for him.

However, to The Butler’s very great relief, Christophe Giacometti was nowhere in sight.

That relief was quickly replaced by alarm, as Masumi scanned the crowd once more; but no matter where he looked, there was no sign of the flirtatious Maître D’.

Masumi cleared his throat.

Well then. Good. Perhaps he could at least spend this last dreadful hour in peace.

The Butler cautiously began to make his way back over to the far wall, when he came upon a rather concerning scene; Baron Mouillé, speaking privately with Satsuki Muramoto – and standing far too close for comfort, judging by the Governess’ expression.

It was very possible that he was mistaken, of course – Masumi wasn’t exactly known for his ‘people skills’ – but he wasn’t about to take that chance.

And so, The Butler smoothed his lapels and approached the pair; standing up straight and putting every single one of his 76 inches to good use.

It was clear that both parties took note of his presence, but while The Governess moved to greet him with relief, The Baron ignored him entirely.

When Mouillé continued to disregard his existence, Masumi very purposefully leaned into The Baron's field of vision.

“Something you needed, Master Keller?” Baron Mouillé growled; positively incensed by the unexpected interruption – and visibly inebriated to boot.

“ _A thousand apologies_ , My Lord,” Masumi replied, “I am loathed to intrude upon your conversation, but I’m afraid a rather unique situation has presented itself and I find myself in need of Satsuki-sensei's assistance –”

“Of course – whatever it is, _yes_ ,” the Governess replied, just a little too quickly. Mercifully, she caught herself and recovered, “I – I mean, _of course_ ; I’m happy to help however I can, Master Keller”. She turned back to The Baron with an affected frown, “Apologies, My Lord – perhaps we can resume our discussion another time”.

With another apology and his ‘most sincere’ thanks, Masumi turned to escort The Governess away.

Both let out a sigh of relief the moment they were free of The Baron.

“So . . . what seems to be the trouble, Master Keller?” Satsuki asked, finally breaking the silence as they reached The Butler’s post.

“Oh –” Masumi fumbled, suddenly self-conscious, “There’s no trouble – not, not really. Forgive my boldness, but . . . in the moment, it appeared as though you might, ah, welcome an excuse to be elsewhere?”

Satsuki considered The Butler a moment, then smiled, “boldness forgiven, Master Keller”.

Masumi chuckled, cleared his throat, and quickly glanced up at the mantle clock.

After a moment, Satsuki spoke again.

“Would - would it be alright if I lingered here with you awhile?” she asked, “If it’s not a bother, of course. I seem to have lost Catalina, and I’d hate to think Baron Mouillé might still be . . . well, keeping an eye out for me, or . . .”

“Of course,” Masumi automatically replied, “Yours is always welcome company, Sensei”.

The minutes ticked by and the two settled in; Masumi standing against the wall, as per usual, while Satsuki sat at the end of the table. The conversation was easy and the company pleasant; quiet and amicable, light and inoffensive, unhurried and unhindered. All the while, Masumi continued to supervise the last lingering revellers, while Satsuki scanned the crowd for signs of her wayward companion; making ready to depart.

The crowd was down by half now; but though they were fewer, the remaining party-goers were the most raucous of the lot, and Masumi had no doubt he would see at least one more disaster before the night was out.

Masumi scanned the room; another roll of the dice, another wave of laughter, another round of drinks. 

A little under an hour now; he could do this. A little under hour and he would be free. Just a few more glorious minutes and then –

 _Merciful fucking stars_!

Masumi blinked in disbelief, swiping an errant hand over his eyes; a cartoonish attempt to ensure he had actually seen what he’d thought he’d seen.

But much as he hoped, and much as he prayed, and much as he tried to blink it away, the image before him remained the same.

Christophe Giacometti was back.

And he was with Cao Bin.

Masumi’s stomach flooded with bile.

 _Speaking of disasters_ . . .

Apparently, The Maître D’ had found his way back into the arms – and affections – of Crown Prince Nikiforov’s Personal Valet.

Presently, Christophe was seated in Cao Bin’s _lap_ ; the two exchanging heated glances and brazen flirtations as they slowly entwined.

Minako was nowhere in sight.

Cao Bin grinned, looking for all the world like a predator about to pounce - the gleam in his eye decidedly more than friendly – desire palpable as it simmered between them.

The Butler tore his eyes away, turning his attention to the other side of the room and checking the hour one more fruitless time.

A moment or two passed as he forced himself to relax, swallowing his fury as he gazed out over the Chianti-soaked tableaux .

Perhaps he had been mistaken. The hour was late and the wine was flowing free; perhaps the flirtations had been unintentional. Perhaps it was all in fun; some alcohol-induced tom-foolery. Perhaps Cao Bin had misunderstood. Perhaps the looks really were only friendly in nature, and Masumi was simply –

Nope.

That was a wink.

That was a whisper.

That was a hand on a hip and a –

Shit.

Masumi’s hands curled into fists.

Christophe Giacometti; _that son of a bitch_!

Just when he’d thought the man could sink no lower, he somehow managed to find a shovel and dig.

He was _hopeless_ ; _completely, utterly hopeless_.

No, not just hopeless – _Christophe Giacometti was a menace_. He was a _slacker_ and a _sot_ and a _schmoozer_ and a _showboat_ and a _simpleton_ and a _scoundrel_. Treating Minako well was that pompous asshole’s _only_ saving grace; and apparently, he could not even be bothered to do that much.

Now, Masumi was positively seething.

“. . . Master Keller? Master Keller?”

“Ah – Satsuki-sensei!” he yelped, suddenly registering The Governess’s presence at his side, “Apologies, it was not my intention to ignore you; I’m afraid I’m positively dead on my feet”.

He trailed off with a weak little laugh.

“That’s alright,” Satsuki replied, soft and sweet, “I just wanted to let you know I’ve found Catalina – we’re heading up to bed now, but I wanted to say goodnight. And thank you. Again.”

The Governess’ smile, like the rest of her, was warm and radiant.

“Of course – no trouble at all,” Masumi assured, “that’s what I’m here for”.

A moment later Catalina collected her friend, and the two headed up to bed – with a loud, sloppy Frieda Baumann in tow. 

Masumi let out a sigh; rubbing his eyes once again.

Forty more minutes; forty more mercy-forsaken minutes . . .

The room spun as Masumi’s tired eyes roved The Hall; staying decidedly clear of the centre table, so as to spare himself the sight of Christophe’s . . . activities.

Over in the corner, Sasha was wrapping up his second tournament. Minako reappeared; gossiping with Mila and Sara. Count Raoul held court on some esoteric bit of economics. Baron Mouillé sat alone, scowling at his tankard. Francois talked Paxton’s ear off as the barkeep corked the remaining wine. Dmitry and Ketty each stole another half-bottle of Chianti. Ivan and Sabina hauled Andrei to his feet and helped him to bed.

Suddenly, Masumi spotted his inebriated First Footman in possession of a very great deal of coin, which was decidedly not his own.

“Master Orlovis – what did I say about wagers?” Masumi chided, voice echoing above the din.

The tipsy First Footman made an innocent face and shrugged; pretending he hadn’t any idea how Hikaru’s coin purse came to be in his own hand.

Masumi rolled his eyes.

“Wager _chores_ , if you must –” he conceded, too exhausted to fight any longer “– but coin stays in your pocket – that goes for all of you”.

With enthusiastic nods, and an absent “Yes, Master Keller”, Mooroka and the footmen returned to their game.

Masumi closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Twenty-two more minutes now; just _twenty-two_ more minutes.

 _Just twenty-two more minutes. Just twenty-two more minutes. Just twenty-t_ –

“H-hey . . .”

Damn; _so close_.

“Yes? What is it _now_ , Master Giacometti?”

When Masumi opened his eyes, The Maître D’ was indeed standing right in front of him.

Christophe slowly strut forward, smiling to himself as he came to lean against the wall.

“It’s three o’clock” he gloated; his breath now reeking like a brewery.

Masumi repressed his umbrage and stared straight ahead.

“It’s two-thirty-eight,” he corrected.

“Iss _almost_ three,”

“Yes. Very astute, Master Giacometti”.

“Iss almost three . . . n’ yer almost not a chaperone anymore, hm?”

“Your point being?”

Christophe merely smirked in reply; biting his lip as he gave The Butler a less-than-subtle once-over.

Masumi cleared his throat; pretending not to have noticed.

A tipsy little snicker burbled over Christophe’s lips.

“You know . . .” The Maître D purred; waggling his eyebrows and seeming very pleased with himself indeed.

Masumi let out a sigh.

First the dogged flirting, and now _this_? As if Masumi hadn’t just spent the entire night watching Christophe cozy up to anything with a pulse; the man must now be very drunk indeed, for him to so brazenly push his luck.

“ _Master Giacometti_ ,” Masumi warned, “I don’t know _what_ you think you’re doing, but Okukawa Minako is a _very dear companion_ of mine, and I have absolutely _no intention_ of–”

A shrill soprano shout cut him off mid-sentence.

“Masumi!”

 _Oh, thank Mercy_.

“Contessa?” The Butler queried, turning to face a very harried Lady Sara, “Is everything alright?”

“It’s Mila . . . she says she’s not feeling so good . . .”

Masumi nearly collapsed with relief; thanking every Mercy in The Universe for 'invincible' young nobles and past-prime Chianti.

“Of course,” he somberly replied, “I’ll be right there. A thousand apologies, Master Giacometti, I really must see to the Marchioness –”

Just like that, he was off.

Moments later, he was at Mila’s side. She was sitting in the same place as she had been all night, slumped over with her head in her hands; bouncy red curls tumbling through the drunken cage of her fingers.

Masumi knelt before her on the floor; desperately trying to meet her sullen gaze.

“Mila . . . Mila, honey?” He cooed, ignoring the desperate echo of worry edging its way into his voice, “What’s wrong? Sara says you’re not feeling so well”.

The Marchioness nodded her head ever-so-slightly.

“Is it the drink, or something else?”

“. . . drrnk . . . ”

Masumi frowned, completely ashamed of himself; he should have known to keep a closer eye on her.

This never would have happened if he hadn’t been so . . . _distracted_.

“Felt fine all night,” Mila warbled, “n’ then my ribs were achy so we loosened m’corset, but juss a l’il, l-l’il bit . . .”

“Oh, honey . . .” Masumi frowned, having seen this exact thing many, many times before, “Then the drink hit you all at once? When you loosened it?”

Mila sniffled, “Yea . . .”

“Yea . . .” Masumi echoed, “It’s alright, moy Gospođa . . . you’ll make it through. Do you want me to take you upstairs?”

“Yea . . .”

“Alright . . . let’s get you upstairs. Do you think you can stand?”

“. . . yea?”

“Are you certain? There's no rush, My –”

“Yes.”

“. . . alright then,” Masumi acquiesced, slowly rising to his feet, “take my hands; right – there – you’ve got it. Now, whenever you’re ready, Barynja; slowly, now . . .”

Little by little, Mila inched her way up, leaning on Masumi as she went.

She teetered a bit once she was upright, but soon found her footing.

It was then that Masumi noticed the small crowd of concerned onlookers, pausing their games to watch the scene unfold.

There among them was Christophe Giacometti; his expression strange and unreadable.

Masumi staunchly ignored him, looking to Sara instead, “She’ll be alright, Contessa,” he assured, “just . . . too much too fast”.

Sara nodded and Masumi turned his attention back to Mila.

“Good,” The Butler cooed, “Good . . . how do you feel now, moy Gospođa? No, no – keep holding on. Don’t let go . . .”

Mila slowly lifted her head, blinking up at The Butler; her eyes dazed and unfocused.

“Mmm . . . alright?” she replied, “better, I think?”

“Good – that’s good,” Masumi murmured, “Contessa Crispino and I are going to take you up to bed now – she’ll stay with you while I fetch Nurse Konako, and the three of us will ensure you’re taken care of; alright, Barynja?”

Mila nodded, “. . . alright”.

“Alright,” Masumi repeated, “whenever you’re –”

But The Butler didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence.

Without warning, Mila pitched forward, getting sick all down the front of Masumi’s still-soaking breeches.

It hit his knees first; warm and wet and wholly unwelcome as it ran down his shins and soaked into his hose.

All the while, The Butler just held on tight, keeping The Marchioness balanced as she emptied her stomach all over his shoes.

Masumi held his breath and politely averted his gaze; he wasn't _exactly_ sure what he’d done to incur such cosmic punishment, but felt quite certain he somehow deserved it.

 

*****

 

_MONTH 1, DAY 14 (OR 15, SHOULD IT PLEASE YOU)_

( _ROUGHLY 3 & ½  HOURS PAST MIDNIGHT_)

 

The soiree disbanded shortly thereafter.

Once Mila had finished being sick, Masumi and Sara continued to tend her; offering her small sips of water for her curdled stomach and sour breath.

Masumi took a quick moment to mop up the worst of the sickness slicking his shins, but there was really nothing for it but a nice, long bath – the hose and breeches, however, he would likely have to burn.

After what felt like ages, Mila finally felt ready to move, and Masumi slowly, gently carried her up to bed.

The good news was that after her upheaval, The Marchioness genuinely felt a bit better; the bad news was that Masumi had to rouse a very pious Nurse Konako at shortly past three in the morning, reeking of bile and twice-fermented Chianti.

After ensuring The Marchioness’ well-being, Masumi finally headed back down to bed; knowing full-well that once he reached his chambers he would likely spend another hour washing up, and after that, only an hour of sleep would remain before he’d have to rouse himself for work.

“ _Come on, Masumi – don't you deserve to have some fun too_?” he grumbled, imitating his companions as he sloshed down the hallway in soggy shoes, “ _you'll have a wonderful time . . . I personally guarantee it_!”

Well, so much for that.

In hindsight, he supposed the night had really gone as well as could’ve been expected.

He made his way through the staff corridor and back down to the basement, drifting through the gloomy passageways like a ghost.

The Butler had just made it back to his chamber door, when he realized – to his horror – that the remaining vomit had not yet been sponged from The Staff Hall floor.

He himself had been far too preoccupied with the Marchioness and his own soiled clothes to spare a moment before; and he couldn’t recall anyone else volunteering for the task.

Masumi sighed, forlornly looking over his shoulder in the direction of The Staff Hall.

Would it really be too much to hope that some brave soul had taken up the charge once he’d departed with the ladies?

He supposed he should really go check.

With a pathetic little whimper, The Butler turned and trudged back towards the hall.

He was less than two steps past the threshold, when he came face to face with a sickeningly familiar scene.

 _Oh no_.

 _Please, no_.

 _Please – merciful stars above – no_.

Masumi slapped a hand over his eyes.

Mercy’s flaming asshole – what was it with people engaging in _private activities_ in _public areas of the basement_?

The torches had been smothered, the candles all melted down; but a few lingering flames still flickered in the night, and Masumi had very clearly seen Christophe Giacometti - mercifully, clothed - and straddling Cao Bin’s hips atop the center table.

Perfect. _Just fucking perfect_.

Less than twenty-four hours, and Christophe Giacometti was already making life a nightmare.

But, on the bright side, at least someone had cleaned up the vomit.

The Butler turned on his heel and stormed out of the staff hall, certain that things couldn’t possibly get any worse.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSLATIONS: 
> 
> [French] Chéri = Darling (Colloquial Term of Endearment)
> 
> QUICK GUIDE TO Cher/Chère/Chéri/Chérie
> 
> Chris uses these terms a lot (because I’m a gremlin who can’t resist being campy). I try to be 100% accurate with the usage, but sometimes typos make it through.
> 
> Mon cher/Ma chère = My Dear (Colloquial).  
> Used to convey general/platonic affection – a genuine sentiment, but one which could be interpreted as ‘campy’/disingenuous/sarcastic, depending on tone, body language, time period, etc.  
> “Mon cher” is the masculine version; “Ma chère” is the feminine version. 
> 
> Mon chéri/Ma chérie = My Darling (Colloquial Term of Endearment).  
> These terms are more endearing, and are usually reserved for lovers or children.  
> “Mon chéri” is the masculine version; “Ma chérie” is the feminine version. 
> 
> [French] Oui, oui, mon chéri . . . mais c’est très facile à deviner = Yes, yes, my darling . . . but that’s very easy to guess
> 
> [French] Por moi? Oui, assez facile = For me? Yes, easy enough.
> 
> [French] Bon soiree, mon cher = Good evening, my dear
> 
> [Russian] Da, da, mat' = да да мать = Ya, ya, mom. (This version of “mom/mother” seems to have sharper connotation – akin to “old lady” – but my sources are a bit unclear/contradictory). 
> 
> [French] N'est-ce pas? = Isn't that so? (Phrase used at the end of a sentence to confirm a statement – like how an English speaker might say "Right?")
> 
> [Japanese] Ichigo Daifuku - "A popular spring dessert, Strawberry Mochi (Ichigo Daifuku) is a soft and chewy mochi stuffed with fresh juicy strawberry and sweet red bean paste." (Definition).
> 
> [High German] Ach – Leck mich am Arsch, Keller! = Oh, kiss my ass, Keller! (Colloquial). The direct translation would be “lick me on the ass” or “lick my ass” – but the sentiment is basically the same.
> 
> NOTES ON PEERAGE/TITLES/FORMS OF ADDRESS/ETC
> 
> Full disclosure; when writing CSR, I wasn't too terribly focused on noble ranks/titles, for a couple reasons: firstly, because the characters had been under the spell so long, ranks/titles had ceased to matter, and secondly, because I was trying to be reflective of the original Disney verbiage. However, rank and social class have a bit more impact on the story line for this fic; so I had to Frankenstein a peerage system that was congruous with CSR, but which still made sense in this universe. (For example, the inclusion of non-binary & gender-neutral titles, justifying the random blend of languages, etc).
> 
> The ranks & titles used in this fic for the 'Honorary Ranks of Distinction' are based on the British peerage system (as that happened to be the main convention used in CSR/Disney). In real life, most noble titles refer to the land which a person rules, not their family name. but because I didn’t want to create confusion (and didn't have time to invent a dozen counties/baronies/duchies), my simplified system is:
> 
> TITLE/FORM OF ADDRESS + LAST NAME = FORMAL  
> TITLE/FORM OF ADDRESS + FIRST NAME = INFORMAL  
> FIRST NAME WITH NO TITLE = INTIMATE
> 
> RANKS IN DESCENDING ORDER  
> **I designed a few gender-neutral titles, borrowing from multiple sources; so those are pretty anachronistic - apologies for any lapses
> 
> King/Queen/Regent  
> Dowager King/Dowager Queen/Dowager Regent (former ruler who has abdicated the throne).  
> Crown Prince/Crown Princess/Crown Scion (1st born - will inherit the throne)  
> Prince/Princess/Scion (siblings of the Crown Scion)  
> Duke/Duchess/Doyen  
> Marquis/Marchioness/Magnate  
> Earl/Count/Countess/Counteres ('Eres' is a Latin word meaning "owner/possessor/master"; here I've used it as a suffix to create new titles)  
> Viscount/Viscountess/Visceres  
> Baron/Baroness/Baroneres  
> Knight (In this AU, 'Knight' is used for all genders)  
> Master/Madame/Miss/Mx (pronounced 'miks').
> 
> STAFF RANKS & TITLES
> 
> Back in the day, there was a fairly strict hierarchy among servants, as well as nobility. Certain roles, such as Butler/Steward, Head Chef, Valet/Handmaid, Governess, etc, were considered positions of great esteem, while others, like kitchen boy, launderer, groundskeeper, etc, were not as well respected (because classism). instead, I made the staff hierarchy bit more like a modern-day workplace - there's still a chain of command, but it's less formal/deferential and more cooperative/managerial.
> 
> I've also included more country and language-specific ranks/titles, in order to better establish the world, (Monsieur/Mademoiselle, moy Gospođa, Cavaliere Cialdini, etc) but by-and-large, those will only appear when Masumi is being particularly pedantic (re: showing off) and only when appropriate to the character/relationship/situation.
> 
> I hope I've used the 'Sensei' honorific correctly for Satsuki - A Govorness is a type of teacher/tutor, but I'd hate to misrepresent anything, especially as Masumi is the speaker.

**Author's Note:**

> TRANSLATIONS:
> 
> [Russian] Spasibo, chto dali mne etot shans – Ya ochen’ blagodaren = Спасибо, что дали мне этот шанс – Я очень’ благодарен = Thank you for giving me this chance – I am very grateful
> 
> [Russian] Ne stoit blagodarnosti = Не стоит благодарности = Don’t mention it/You’re welcome/Not at all
> 
> [French] Enchanté, Monsieur = It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir (Colloquial) 
> 
> [French] Mon ami = My friend
> 
> [French] Chéri = Darling (MASC) (Colloquial Term of Endearment)
> 
> A NOTE ABOUT CHARACTER AGES:
> 
> Since I used everyone's cannon ages in CSR (and thanks to the pre-spell timeline established therein) all characters will be about 2 years younger in this fic. 
> 
> For example, Chris is 25 (his cannon age) in CSR, so here, he'll be 23.  
> The same applies to all other characters, with the exceptions of Minako and Celestino (due to all the wibbly time magic stuff). I used their cannon(ish) ages of 51 and 45 respectively for CSR, meaning that Minako was 31 when the spell was cast, and Celestino was 25. After subtracting 2 years for the pre-spell timeline, that makes Minako 29 years old, and Celestino 23 years old - for the purposes of this fic.
> 
> And ya, I definitely had WAY TOO MUCH FUN writing 23 year old Ciao Ciao; forgive me when the next chapter comes, lol.


End file.
